Confessions of a Recovering, Rebellious Rule-Follower
Or, how I'm finding freedom in food, writing, and motherhood
It’s amazing what happens when you give yourself a little freedom.
I’ve always thought of myself as a rule follower and a formula-seeker. This is why I’ve always preferred baking over cooking. There’s a formula, you must not deviate from the formula, and if you follow the formula to the letter, you will get a batch of beautiful cupcakes (or gorgeous cookies with crispy edges and chewy centers).
No wonder I adore this quote from one of my favorite movies, Julie & Julia:
“You know what I love about cooking? I love that after a day when nothing is sure—and when I say nothing, I mean nothing—you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. That’s such a comfort.”
(Except, I would argue that that’s baking, NOT cooking. You cook beef bourguignon; you bake a chocolate pie. But I digress.)
I’ve always had a bit of a rebel streak, though. It has never been the dominant feature of my personality, thanks to my historically strong compulsion to people-please, but it’s always been there deep down, angrily flaring to life whenever someone tells me what to do or what to think. And Heaven help anyone who tells me “It can’t be done.” I’ll do it twice and take pictures, thank you very much.
Just so we’re clear, I’m not into thinking, doing, or enjoying anything immoral. I am talking about matters of conscience and preference.
I believe there are wise principles to follow, laws of nature that cannot be gainsaid, and nonconformist tendencies that sometimes need to be reined in. But I’ve also learned that those who claim they have a formula for anything are always selling something—and that the Lord is not nearly so hard on us as we are on ourselves.
I want to live well and responsibly within the pleasant boundaries the Lord has set for me. But I also want the freedom to live within the pleasant boundaries the Lord has set for ME, specifically.
Currently, this looks like tamping down the critical, legalistic voices in my head and figuring out what I actually desire (and what works best for my family) in three areas:
My Writing
The Voices In My Head screech, “Write every day! Make sure you have uninterrupted time, because you’ll never write another book or be consistent with your Substack otherwise, and you’ll never be a Complete Person if you’re not pursuing a creative goal!”
For a month, my husband had to be at work at 6 AM, which meant we were waking up at 4, and I had an hour of uninterrupted writing time before our daughter woke up. It was lovely. But that season has ended—my husband has gone back to his old 7 AM-5:30 PM schedule—and we no longer need to wake so early.
This is good. Waking at 4 was getting old. But throw Daylight Savings Time into the mix, and not only have I lost that uninterrupted writing time, but Baby Girl’s sleep schedule is completely off.
Yet lo and behold, I’m still writing this post. She’s been playing for an hour at my feet, perfectly content. I’ll likely finish this paragraph and take her for a walk; then we’ll come home, she’ll take a nap, and I’ll write some more, probably on the story that’s taking full, vivid shape in my mind.1
Rebel, fellow writer-moms: the Voices are wrong. Your levels of creativity will ebb and flow and your worth isn’t tied to your productivity. Besides, writing as a mom doesn’t have to always look like setting aside a dedicated hour with no interruptions. Sometimes it looks like snatching 15 minutes here and 30 minutes there while the dirty dishes wait for a bit and the toddler cuddles next to you on the couch, watching Miss Rachel.2 Which is a nice segue into…
Embracing My Scrunchy Mom Aesthetic
Once again, the Voices In My Head are screaming. “MUST BUY ORGANIC!! MUST BE ALL-NATURAL!! If you expose your baby to these toxins, your baby will get autism and it’ll be YOUR FAULT. If you let her eat this thing, she’ll get cancer and it’ll be YOUR FAULT. If you let her watch this, she’ll be developmentally stunted AND IT’LL. BE. YOUR. FAULT.”
Sigh. Being a mom is hard. And these voices are probably the cruelest.
But as my mom always says, “I do my best and trust Jesus to fill in my cracks.” In other words, I trust Him not only with the things I can’t control and change, but with the decisions my husband and I have made together about raising our daughter. That trust often feels rebellious in a world where formulas are constantly offered to scared and clueless young parents.
I’m a proud “scrunchy mom,” the moderate sister of the Silky Mom and the Crunchy Mom.3 I was all but forced to become one: my “crunchy” aspirations for Baby Girl’s birth went out the window with a C-section and an epic breastfeeding debacle. But those “failures” helped me remember that my worth and identity don’t rest in a 100% natural, 100% toxin-free life—and neither does my Baby Girl’s worth.
So we work with a wonderful pediatrician, following many of his recommendations…and I keep natural remedies like elderberry syrup and Hyland’s Baby products on hand. We eat a lot of protein and vegetables…and we took Baby Girl to our local Off The Hook last week where she tried (and loved!) her first fried catfish. We watch Miss Rachel, Bluey, and Baby Einstein…and we play outside (with bare feet! Grounding is good for you!!), we’re obsessed with Magna-Tiles, and we read board books over and over again (pretty sure I’ve got Madeline memorized at this point).
I’ve also learned social media is not a mom’s friend in this area. It thrives on our fear that we’re not doing this mom thing exactly right. So when the algorithm sends you all the Reels of the slim, gorgeously-dressed mothers with their perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfectly-behaved children, perfect homes, and perfect sourdough starter that never goes neglected—rebel and remember: it’s not real. You and your family and your home are real, in all your imperfect glory. And that finally leads me leads into…
Ditching Diet Culture (for good)
The Voices In My Head bellow, “UGH, YOU ARE SO FAT. You’re still 30 pounds heavier than you were before you got pregnant. Your husband’s going to lose interest in you one of these days. You had to buy a whole new wardrobe, what a spendthrift. You’ll probably end up being 200 pounds if you get pregnant again. And you’ll probably die of an aneurysm like your great-grandmother.”
In late January, I freaked out about my weight. It was right at That Time of the Month when you’re never supposed to make Big Decisions—but I made a Big Decision anyway (when will I ever learn?!) and splurged on a diet program. It even came with its own app. Spesh-ul.
For 6 weeks, I faithfully logged each and every calorie. I lost exactly one pound. When I anxiously consulted the program’s forum (because after all, the program promised I’d lose a pound a week if I followed the formula!), the answer was: “Restrict your calories more!”
And then I truly freaked out, because to restrict my calories further would’ve meant dropping below 1,200 a day. I’ve done that before, and believe me, my body has kept the score. Slow metabolism and hypothyroidism now mean that, except for that plummeting loss of 15 pounds after my traumatic accident in 2022, losing weight is hard.
So, I rebelled and ditched the app. It hurt like hell, because I’d spent my hard-earned money on it. But not only am I eating enough again, I’m actually more motivated to make healthy meals full of fun, delicious variety. I’m also exercising in ways that leave me energized and happy rather than exhausted and in pain.
No matter how healthy I eat or how much I exercise, I will probably never fit into my wedding dress again, and that needs to be okay. My body will never be the same after carrying a baby for 9 months.
But can I still believe my husband when he tells me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen? Yes, because he loves me, and I love him.
Was it okay to buy myself new clothes? Yes, because money is meant to be spent on necessities such as these (and you’d be amazed at the cute deals you can find at Goodwill and Walmart!).
Will I be 200 pounds by the end of my next pregnancy (whenever that happens)? I hope not, but even if I am, I won’t be any less worthy of love, care, and respect—from myself and from others.
Will I die of an abdominal aortic aneurysm like my great-grandmother? What kind of a question is that?! I have no idea how I’ll die, neither does anyone else, and guess what? Not even the 150% HEALTHIEST diet will save you from certain death.
MEMENTO MORI, FOLKS. “REMEMBER YOU MUST DIE.”
Boundaries exist and they exist for our good. It’s great to eat healthy, to give your baby nutritious snacks and screen time limits, and to make time for creativity. But if those boundaries are actually just harsh formulas with “guaranteed results,” then I’m pretty sure they don’t come from a loving, grace-full God who offers us far more freedom and abundance than we expect or deserve.
So let’s rebel, friends, and be merry about it. Let’s take joy in our creative passions, embrace our own unique ways of mothering, and take care of these marvelous, miraculous bodies of ours. Pick what works best for you. And for goodness’ sake, love “your one wild and precious life.”4
That in itself may be the biggest rebellion of all.
Founding members of “Letters from Crickhollow,” you’ll get an update on this SOON! (If you’d like access to upcoming posts on my fiction projects, you can adjust your subscription and become a founding member!)
“There is always housework that needs to be done. This is good news: if you put it off for two hours while you write or paint or make music, the housework isn’t going anywhere. You haven’t missed your chance to wash dishes. If you end up pulling dirty breakfast plates out of the sink and wiping them off for lunch, nobody is going to die.” — Jonathan Rogers, “A Note to Mothers (and Those Who Love Them.”
Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”