I often become angry at my body for being a body. I become angry at how it consumes me. I become angry at all of its needs, every ounce that it requires of me. I want to transcend this body’s boundaries. I want evolution to advance beyond my body’s inherent humanity. My anger is a prayer to the body gods, that they might bestow upon me the capacity to both make a person and kick off a career, to be mentally ill and still manage to compete with my peers.

But the body gods forsake my will. Beyond my wants, they bless me with my needs. They seek to teach me the art of reconciling self acceptance with ambition. They teach me to forgive myself for being a human.

It’s hard to be pregnant, depressed, and ambitious. It’s hard to be hungry for success with no energy. It’s hard to feel packed with potential and depraved of your will to fulfill it. It’s hard to explain why you’re missing the thrice extended deadline, and it’s doubly hard to stop taking on tasks.

I want to be one of those women who does it all. I want to live the shit out of life, with a baby on my hip and in my belly. I want a Chai latte to be enough. I want to cook all three meals, exercise, and keep a clean home. I want to stimulate my kid’s mind, start a career, and a self-care routine. I want a happy, healthy marriage and well-fostered friendships.

But I am bribing my toddler’s tantrums to retreat with mini marshmallows. I am purging all my anxieties into my stressed spouse’s very full lap. The little money I have too often goes to pizza. Between pregnancy brain and depression fog, I’ve failed at two jobs and a fellowship this year. I can’t put a word down of the novel in my head. I’m a phantom to most of my friends, now. And there is not enough self-care in the world to satiate the amount of solitude I need to recharge.