
In the first year of my daughter’s life, I was also reborn.
Before Vivian’s birth, I was the stereotypical Type-A personality with a five-year plan, a regimented morning routine and a daily schedule that was so tightly packed my assistant had to schedule in toilet breaks.
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Yes, this really happened: in my former life as a high-flying corporate engineer, my personal assistant had to schedule in five minute toilet breaks between back-to-back meetings to give me time to go to the toilet, eat, drink and do all the other essential things a human being requires.
But all this fell to pieces when my daughter was born. Babies don’t have a schedule, and they certainly don’t give a rat’s ass about your morning routine. Five-year plans? Pfft, you can’t even make a five-minute plan. This, you can imagine, was a shock to the system for a person like me.
On the outside, I was pretending I was still managing. I thought if I planned it all thoroughly and asked for help when I needed it, then everything would be fine. I was wrong. The pressure I had placed on myself to ‘have it all’, and look good while doing so, had turned my life into a pressure cooker waiting to explode.