Guest Post by Monisha Vasa: Red Lipstick and the Quest for Perfection

I am excited to bring another guest post to Balance, written by Doctor Monisha Vasa! Monisha is a psychiatrist, mother and writer, currently living in Orange County, California, but has strong ties to Chicago growing up in the southwest suburbs. I have had the opportunity to read through much of her writings and poetry on her website and appreciate the emotional honesty of her voice as she shares her own journey.

There were a quite a few posts that I could relate with. When I shared with Monisha the three or four I was thinking about using, she told me one of them was a favorite.  I find her words captures my thoughts as well…

“Taking small and big detours and not knowing and figuring it out as we go isn’t necessarily the life plan…But that is the truth of how we all unfold.  That is how we all grow towards whatever light we are each uniquely designed to find.  Whether we like it or not, and whether we share it or not, that is the reality of how most of us navigate our days”

RED LIPSTICK AND THE QUEST FOR PERFECTION

by Monisha Vasa

 

“You awake? :)))”

“Yes!”

“Do you have the energy for me to unload some of my crazy on you? :)))”

“Yes!”

And so our text exchange began, the type of long drawn out texting that unfolds late at night, when there is so much to release, and kids’ perky ears still awake and within earshot.  The types of text conversations that you can only have with dear friends who will respond to the 11 pm pings and whistles, happily and without hesitation.

On this particular night, my neurosis was indeed just that–neurosis.  I went on to share a certain pressure that I had been feeling.  A few blog posts ago, I had received some wonderful feedback about how my words had been especially meaningful to one of my readers.  I was so touched that they had found some wisdom in what I had written, and that, in a sense, my words had helped them.

After all, that is why I write.

But since then, I found myself chasing the high, if you will.  Trying to “knock it out of the ballpark” with another sage post.  Trying to say something important and unique and memorable.

To make matters worse, what wanted to be written lately was poetry, an art form that was entirely new to me.  I don’t know how to write poems.  In fact I know nothing at all about poetry.  But I love the chance to play and stretch and yes, suck at it too.  I love the vulnerability of expressing myself in an unfamiliar way.

What I didn’t love was the feeling of somehow falling short of my readers’ expectations.  What if my poems were not as meaningful as my other blog posts?  Where was the wisdom?  Was I disappointing my supporters?  In my poetry-playing, was I somehow depriving my readers of something they had come to look forward to, a post to learn from every week?

If you want to kill your creative spirit (and over-inflate your ego), try engaging in an entirely self imposed pressure to write a perfect, life altering, mind blowing blog post every week.

My phone lit up:  “Why are you doubting yourself and your work?  Your readers don’t want perfect. If anything, your readers want more of YOU.”

And yet another ding:  “You are putting too much pressure on yourself.  Remember why you started your blog.  For your children to read one day.  Remember them.  Remember your intention.”

Yes.  Thank you dear friend.

My intention from the beginning was to be real, true, and most of all myself, as I show up on the page.  I don’t want to be perfect.  I don’t want to save anybody.  My readers don’t need my “help.”

My readers need my honesty and transparency and my humanity most of all.  They need to feel my love, one shaky, uncertain word at a time.  The last thing they need is shiny wisdom, which inadvertently has left us all feeling inadequate and needy at one time or another.

We were texting about my blog, but as always, it was a reminder that writing mirrors life and vice versa.  My desire to get it “just right” has often paralyzed me from taking risks big and small.  I didn’t go for the English major because it wasn’t part of the pre-med plan.  I struggle with letting my kids be free to have a do-nothing summer because I fear a blank college application.  I wanted to take a couple of years off to travel but never found the right time or opportunity.

I don’t wear the red lipstick because I simply don’t trust that I can pull it off.

Letting it all hang out while we seek and screw up and struggle for answers in the dark isn’t how it’s supposed to go.  Taking small and big detours and not knowing and figuring it out as we go isn’t necessarily the life plan.  The unfortunate lipstick choices and dead ends aren’t the parts we are comfortable showing to the world.

But that is the truth of how we all unfold.  That is how we all grow towards whatever light we are each uniquely designed to find.  Whether we like it or not, and whether we share it or not, that is the reality of how most of us navigate our days.

I am grateful for the mid-night soothing of my (entirely unrealistic) anxiety to change the world one blog post at a time.  Because in some ways, we actually all need to be a little less perfect.  What if we could simply show up as we are, and share our stories as a way to let ourselves out and let others in? What if these words represented what we most long for–a relationship between you and me?

So today and in the week ahead, I invite you to join me in noticing where you might be imposing perfection upon yourself.  How does perfection paralyze you?  Are there small ways for you to show up just as you are?

With gratitude, Monisha

A Journey From Burnout to Balance

I wanted to share a sincere thank you to Elizabeth Metraux at Primary Care Progress, for the opportunity to be interviewed on her Podcast, Relational Rounds. Becky and I were able to share our story from medical school and residency training to fellowship and private practice, navigating challenges along the way.  Elizabeth has a strong interest on the topic of physician burnout and has written about it at STAT:  I experienced trauma working in Iraq. I see it now among America’s doctors

After reading my post on How Do You Know When Someone Is Broken?  Elizabeth reached out to talk. She then asked to interview both Becky and I for what turned out to be a pretty interesting experience.  Attached below is a player linked to the podcast for those interested in hearing a little of what has gone into almost twenty five years of medical training and practice while trying to balance the needs of work, family and myself.

 

Taking a Step Back to Move Forward

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This was first written and posted on Doximity’s Op-(M)ed and can be seen by clicking here... I will be writing monthly for them and hope to have a year-long discussion about the trials and travails of being part-time. Whether its enjoying more time with the kids, suffering through a bad Locums placement or learning to be a student all over again, I plan to share it all with all of you. For those that have been keeping up with a lot of my writing, a lot will be familiar. But I hope you enjoy the slightly different perspective.

Taking a Step Back to Move Forward…

“The simplest questions are the most profound.
Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing?
Think about these once in a while, and watch your answers change.”
— Richard Bach, Illusions

To an outsider, a hospital often feels like a chaotic place. Varied people flutter in and out of rooms, the color of their scrubs identifying nurse vs. patient care tech vs therapist. Bulky portable X-ray machines compete for hallway space against more streamlined transport carts, shuttling patients to procedures and tests and back again. All this against a soundtrack of monitor alarms in-between intermittent overhead announcements.

For those who work inside the hospital walls, there is a structure and pattern beneath this apparently random Brownian motion. Environmental services with their Zamboni-like machines clean the floors at 4 AM. Phlebotomist follow soon after to draw 5 AM labs. Portable X-rays make their way into the rooms about 5:30 AM. Resident handoffs start at six before the nurses have their shift change at seven. Multidisciplinary rounds tentatively start at eight. Notes finished by twelve so I can get to my first office patient by one in the afternoon.

Patients add improvisation, going off-script to inject their own episodes of distress, instability and crisis. But every day, in each hospital, there is a unique structure and rhythm to the day to anchor and build off of, to manage and cope with the unpredictable nature of the ICU. Almost every day for the last twenty years, I have relied on and used these routines and patterns to navigate and manage my day.

A year ago, everything changed.

Read more

Solitude and Connection

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Two friends (younger than me by more than two decades) are training for the Ironman and I decided to join them for their first of two 40-mile loops. I had already decided to defer my own race entry to next year due to a combination of aches and pains, along with maintaining life-balance, which led to my bike lying dormant in the basement. About four weeks ago, I finally brushed off two years of dust. The few rides done between then and now felt like brief tentative coffee dates after a prolonged break up. So, I impulsively jumped at the chance to join these guys and recapture a bit of pride and youth.

Currently I feel neither proud nor youthful. But I am definitely feeling my age and rather stupid.

First, I spent all of last week barely able to move with a locked-up neck and back. Last weekend’s combination of ICU call and a Midwest water polo tournament did not treat me well. High doses of Motrin and a session with a chiropractor got me the go-ahead to start exercising again. But I might have neglected to mention I had the hills of Madison in mind for this weekend.

Second, I have been on my bike only three times this summer. The longest ride was two hours and covered thirty-two FLAT Illinois miles. Not hilly Wisconsin ones. This was like going from a lazy six-mile run on level ground to a hilly half marathon.

Third, if I was going to do this, I should have ridden at my currently slow own pace. These guys have been training all summer. Their youth, combined with the handicap of my age, makes their current speed out of my league.

Nevertheless, after waking up at four AM and driving to Madison under the backdrop of the morning sunrise, I am now in a world of hurt. Having been dropped relatively quickly by my faster friends, I find myself alone with my thoughts. My wheels spin over the rolling hills; mid-summer length corn lies adjacent to the road on either side. Soon, the corn soon gives way to an open field and a gentle breeze, a nice relief to the morning’s rapidly rising temps. I feel sweat from my brow trickle down symmetrical tracks on the sides of my face, reuniting at the tip of my chin before gravity finally pulls the salty drops from my skin. The wind drones in my ears as it flows through my helmet’s vents. The drive train of the bike generates a soft and subtle background noise with a pattern and cadence matched by my pedaling. Discomfort and stupidity no longer my focus, I am freed to look inward and reflect; an infrequent opportunity these past two years in the absence of long runs and rides.

Thoughts have been fluttering around in my head for a while. Why do I continue to create pain and discomfort through bikes rides and long runs? Why put my body and face between a water polo ball and the goal? Why am I going back to school? What do I want to achieve? In the relative solitude on my bike in the middle of Wisconsin farmland, I can stay and linger with these thoughts for a bit and connect some dots.

My daughter moves like me. She has never been able to sit still. She has learned over the years to channel that boundless energy into dance. Finding within the movements her passion and focus. My own need to swim, bike and run parallels her need for constant motion; my comfort in the pool surrounded by teammates mirrors her happy place in the dance studio. Her desire to make dance part of her life in college reminds me of myself at seventeen using water polo to connect and help find my way as a freshman.

My son is struggling with his future like me. He is in the process of figuring out what he wants to do moving forward in his life. What does he want that to look like and how will he actually make that happen? He reminds me not only of myself at the age of twenty-one, lost and scared about an uncertain future. But also myself now, at the age of forty-eight, asking similar questions all over again. I am probably not the only family member lying awake at night wrestling with the vast openness of the unknown. We both have our own paths of growth and discovery that we are navigating and working through.

The landscape keeps changing. There is a dairy farm now on my right and a field of alfalfa to my left. The bike route this time of year is usually quite busy and for most of the ride there was no shortage of riders around me. But currently I am alone, except for some Holstein cows huddled together, relatively motionless but for their tales whipping through the air. My bicycle and I start to battle a mild but increasingly uphill grade. My breathing turns more forceful and labored, moving the late morning humid air into and out of my lungs. The grade again increases, forcing me to grab the brake hoods, increasing my leverage on the pedals. I have some rough miles ahead of me, both on my bike and off. But instead of feeling stupid, I am filled with gratefulness and connection. To an observer, I am riding slowly up a hill in relative solitude. But in reality, I am not alone. Madison and Maya are right by my side.