I was looking at some past photos of meals I had captured. I went through an entire phase of capturing meals—and posting them. Perhaps, I wanted to show what I was capable of doing or to remind myself of a moment in time, a feat that I had accomplished, something beautiful that I had created.

I became passionate about cooking at a time in my life when everything was turned upside down. Cooking became my catharsis, and not only did it help me heal, but it helped me demonstrate a version of love that I could give myself and others.

And eventually, it became an expectation. A standard that I soon began to measure myself against. Even when I was at the height of my corporate career, I was still thinking about what meal I could make that evening or the coming weekend, researching different recipes and chefs, and obsessing over what kitschy new foodie trend was on the horizon.

There were many times my ambition would get the better of me. On major holidays, I would continue to add to the menu and sweat, swear, and stress my way through until it was served—unable to speak to anyone until it was done. I was a bit scary, if I’m being honest.

When I think about it, I’ve always been this way.

I was explaining to my son the reason that we sometimes clash is that I built my career on pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion. Late nights, weekends, and hours at my computer without eating, drinking, or getting up to use the restroom. Not exactly healthy.

And that became the expectation that my work held me to. The standard by which I had designed a life of success and meaning.

I didn’t know any other way. And in some ways, I still don’t.

That kind of drive is not something I can teach. Even when I tell my doctors that I was once hospitalized for UC, they look at me and ask, “How are you at managing your stress?”

I usually just look at them and laugh. They already know.

So, when I decided to take on homeschooling, I didn’t really know how to approach teaching a neurodivergent kid how to be a good student.

If life has taught me anything, it’s how to keep pushing until you reach your goals.

But what if your goals don’t have an end state?
What if they require more compassion than grit or perseverance can hold?
What if they require changing what was responsible for your own success?

Now that my son is a teen, the need to develop these skills has increased. But I still struggle with understanding the right expectations of him… and myself.

So, when we decided to take on a rigorous classical education from one of the foremost Catholic schools, I should have known that my hyper-drive would kick in. Eight subjects, a neurodivergent teen with dyslexia and dysgraphia, and a type A mom. What’s the worst that could happen?

Well, it’s been five weeks of me trying to reinvent the system, do everything perfectly, and then buckling under the weight of my own creation. The school didn’t ask for perfection, but somehow I expected it. Of myself.

As I scrolled through the photos of the many picturesque meals that I made ten years ago, I didn’t wish to recreate them. I was reminded of how sometimes perfection has a darker underbelly. The polished surface in contrast to the constant humming underneath. The drive that pushes to the point of collapse and the people who have to endure loving us through it.

These days I’m not cooking impressive meals. I’m figuring out how to teach, be a mom, and balance a business filled with clients, writing, partnerships, and program development.

My meals may no longer be glamorous, but the people whom I love are fed.