My Glow Up Diary, Part 7: Reframing the Mind

Fake it till you make it.

I think I’ll start a movement called “The Working Mom Glow Up” because it’s not like a standard glow up.

When I watch videos or read about women’s glow ups, they’re in the “drink lots of water and journal!” variety. I’m all for that. I’m all for the part where I dress well and I treat myself like royalty.

But I have kids. And a job. Neither of them is glamorous.

When forming my Glow Up Plan, I gave myself grace on days I have the kids. I’m not dressing up and I’m not wearing a face full of makeup. I’m slathering on warrior paint while wearing a faded Wonder Woman t-shirt and ripped jeans. I’m lucky if I shower.

In the timing of life, I’ll have my kids more often this summer than per my usual custody schedule. I have extra time this month because my ex-husband has to go into the office in person twice a week and he’s a groomsman for a destination wedding on his typical weekend.

I’m excited to have my kids more often. It’s the first time since the divorce that I’ll have them with me this much. Don’t get me wrong, they’ll drive me insane. But my heart breaks not being a full-time mom.

This means my Glow Up Plan shifts when it comes to physical activities, like taking myself out for a date once a week and always getting dolled up when running errands.

Mentally, the plan stays the same.

I still get the urge to cry and drown myself in depression. I’m forcing myself out of my comfort zone by pulling myself out as soon as I recognize it. It doesn’t feel good which is good, because one would think pulling out of depression would feel better. It doesn’t. It feels uncomfortable and awkward.

I’m learning that even if it feels weird to be on the edge of depression and not lean into the inconsolable abyss, the result isn’t me in a ball on the floor for hours. I’m able to get up and continue functioning, even if at a slower pace. It also forces me to think about things other than my self-hatred and low self-worth.

That’s huge for me. The song of self-loathing is often the #1 hit in my brain’s airwaves.

Doing a glow up the poor man’s way is a bummer. Since I’ll have the kids more often, that means I’ll be feeding them more. My router is on its last leg and I had to buy a new wireless mesh system for my house (but I bought a renewed one so I guess that saves me a few hundred bucks).

My city has a deal where you buy a Visa gift card good for any business in the city and they give another one free. I bought a $100 card, got another $100 free, and I’ll use them for this summer’s indoor rock climbing. They can also be used at local restaurants, so that will help with taking my kids out to eat occasionally.

This past weekend, I took a pickleball lesson with my son. That private lesson cost a small fortune but I promised him for months that we’d do it. Today, I threw myself out of my comfort zone and signed up for a six-week pickleball class on Wednesday mornings. They’re only an hour and I can squeeze that in with work.

I’m not athletic. I don’t do sports. I have the coordination of a dying, drunk cow. As I closed my eyes and clicked “submit”, I told myself it’s only an hour once a week. I can feel discomfort and humiliation for an hour once a week for the greater good of my well-being.

I’ve neglected parts of my Glow Up Plan (step one: formally write out the Glow Up Plan and stop referring to a random Medium article). The weather is crummy so I haven’t sat outside for a minimum of ten minutes a day. I need to incorporate my skincare devices into a routine. Daily water consumption is hit or miss. Eating daily fruits and veggies means spending money; right now I’m all about using up everything I’ve already got in the house.

Beach visits won’t happen until this freaking weather doesn’t get better. Global warming is screwing over my expensive Southern California property values. If I went to the beach today, I’d have to wear a ski jacket.

I have my vision board from years ago printed out at my desk. I need to make a new one, mostly because the guy in the image reminds me too much of Jeremy. One item on it was to publish a book.

There’s no planet where I’m writing a frickin’ novel.

But I remembered my high school diaries, which I believe are still in a box at my ex-husband’s house. Writing daily for years in my diary was not only therapy but how I honed my writing skills. I’m not here saying that I’m a Pulitzer-winning author but a compliment I receive is how well I can articulate my thoughts and experiences.

That’s what happens when you have paper, a pen, and a traumatic childhood.

I need to find those diaries and re-read them. I wonder if they’re worth publishing on Amazon, even if I don’t see a dime in purchases.

The glow up continues…