New Year, Same Fucking Impossible Standard

January doesn’t knock..

She barges in,
throws glitter and guilt everywhere,
and demands a better version of me
by Monday.

Be softer.
Be tougher.
Heal your trauma.
But don’t make it awkward.
Love your body.
But also,
here are five ways to fix it before summer!!

As a woman,
I am marketed to like a fucking contradiction.
Empowered, but palatable.
Confident, but quiet.
Opinionated, but don’t say too much.

All while I’m tired in my bones,
second guessing my tone,
swallowing words
to keep the peace.

As a mum,
I should be endlessly patient,
present, playful, nourishing,
while never admitting I’m bored, zoned out,
overstimulated,
or quietly furious
that my needs don’t exist.

No one sees how exhausted I am.
How my shoulders ache from holding it all.
How I cry in the shower
so no one hears me break.

As a wife,
I’m sold the fantasy of relationship perfection.
Date nights.
Matching pyjamas.
Soft lighting and solved communication.

Be deeply connected.
Have wild sex.
Never argue.
But if you do,
do it calmly,
with “I feel” statements,
and no mess.

No one sees the loneliness
that can live inside partnership.
The unsaid things.
The effort it takes to keep showing up
when you’re already running on empty.

As a businesswoman,
I’m told to be a boss bitch,
whatever the fuck that means.

Work like you don’t have kids.
Mother like you don’t have a job.
Lead fearlessly,
but stay warm, available, and nice.

Be booked out.
Be visible.
Be magnetic.
Be rested.
Be scalable.
Be available, and immediately answer every fucking email.

Even when I’m anxious,
overwhelmed,
lying awake at night,
running numbers and conversations
on a loop.

And then my phone buzzes.

MyFitnessPal:
“You’ve gone over your calories today.”

Cheers.

As if I needed another reminder
that I am failing at optimisation
as a human being.

As if my worth hasn’t already been reduced
to numbers, metrics, performance,
and how well I hide my hunger—
for rest, for space, for fucking peace.

Because it’s never just food.
It’s everything.

Track your steps.
Track your moods.
Track your money.
Track your marriage.
Track your fucking ovulation.

Be healed,
but not angry.
Be ambitious,
but not intimidating.
Be honest,
but don’t trauma dump.

No one asks
what it costs to hold everyone together.
The emotional labour.
The mental load.
The constant vigilance.

The way my nervous system
never fully switches off.

So no,
I don’t want a resolution.

I don’t want a new body,
a better marriage,
a shinier brand,
or a fucking vision board.

I want the noise to stop.
I want to exhale
without feeling like I’m falling behind.
I want permission to be human
without turning it into a project.

This year, my rebellion
is opting out of perfection.
It’s muting the apps,
unfollowing the “inspo,”
and letting rage be a reasonable response
to unreasonable expectations.

This year,
I’m not becoming a better woman.

I’m becoming a freer one.

Written by Beccie