Someone asked me the other day what the name of my car is. Her name is Mercy.
I’m always working on things. Right now what I’m working on is compassion. But not compassion towards other people, the human race, or the world. I’m actually already pretty good at that (most of the time;).
But something I’m not so great at is self-compassion.
I can see a million people do a million things and have so much space in my heart for whoever they’re being, however they got there, and whatever they’re doing or saying. And yet somehow when it comes to me, I’m so much harder on myself.
It’s not something you’d likely notice externally, no matter how well you know me. It’s a silent, internal kind of experience. I don’t do it intentionally; I don’t even notice it most of the time until it’s already happened. Sometimes I catch myself in the middle of it, and can pivot in a different direction.
Always, I’m trying. Sometimes it’s exhausting.
I try to be a better human. I try to understand other people in all walks of life, and help when and where I can. I also work on not over-giving or compromising myself in the process. I try to use my voice when I think it’s relevant or important, and stay quiet when I think someone else needs to have their own experience and they didn’t ask my opinion. All of this is a delicate balance.
I try to take responsibility for myself and my life; for the choices I’ve made, for how I show up in the world, for the times and places I’ve fallen short in some way or another.
The funny thing is, I’ve worked less this year than I ever have before, career-wise. And yet I think that somehow happened on purpose. Because I’ve worked more this year than I ever have before on one very important thing…myself.
So I named my car Mercy as a reminder to take my own advice, take everything one day at a time, and have mercy.