I haven’t posted anything on here for nearly two years. I have wanted to post; I have even written drafts of things, but it didn’t go beyond that.

I’ve been thinking recently about the pressure to do things – a pressure I put on myself, but which is certainly encouraged by the world we live in, by capitalism and the whole ‘time is money’ dictate, the need to be productive, to increase your input, all of that terrible, damaging shit. Usually, it works like this: the more pressure I put on myself, the less I want to do The Thing. I will find as many ways as I can to avoid it, do the dishes, water the plants, go shopping, organise a coffee meet-up with a friend (it’s called productive procrastination). Then, of course, I feel guilty. When I go to bed at night, when the light is off and I’m alone with my thoughts, The Thing I still haven’t done sits there, glaring at me, red, pulsing.

Eventually, it gets to the point where the pressure is such that I can’t avoid The Thing anymore – it’s like a boulder blocking every way out. So I do it, begrudgingly, half-heartedly, and I don’t feel good about it, because I know I could have done a better job.

It’s not always like this. Over time, I have learned to talk myself into doing things, especially ones that I know I will enjoy. I have learned (or, well, am still learning) to feel good about them even if the output isn’t perfect (spoiler alert: it never is).

But with this blog, for example, it’s like each day of not posting is a little stone added onto a trap door. In order to post again, I have to push the trap door open. Ten little stones? Not a problem, the trap door is still easy to lift. Three hundred and sixty stones? That’s a different story.

So I guess I’m trying to think of ways to let go of the pressure. To throw the little stones into a lake, rather than letting them pile up. After all, this is my blog, to do what I want with. Who’s to say how often I should post on it?

I am harder on myself than I am on anyone else. It would be funny, if it weren’t so sad: with my friends, with my family, I am the most compassionate, the most understanding of people. Oh, you forgot my birthday? Well of course, you have a tiny human to look after – it’s no wonder you’re exhausted and can barely function. Don’t worry. I don’t mind. I’m sure that sometimes, setting high expectations can be a way to achieve a lot. It’s also important to recognise, though, when the expectations start doing more harm than good.

So I’m not going to set goals. I am not going to make myself post every week, or every month. I will ‘go with the flow’ (as the tarot card my husband drew for me this morning, from the Dark Wood deck, suggests). Even it feels unlike me.