It's a Pandemic and I am Putting Unrealistic Expectations on Myself

I woke up on March 16th to an email from my employer, mandating non-essential employees to stay home and telecommute. During week one, I set up my home office in the dining room. The least used, and therefore cleanest room in the house, seemed to have the most professional back drop for my back-to-back virtual meetings. I enjoyed freshly pressed coffee, and pajamas, that first week, and surges of adrenaline to mask the fear of the pandemic that had felt so far away just two weeks prior. The kids' schools, with little time to plan for the shut down, filled their backpacks with a two weeks worth of worksheets. My youngest, Charlotte, completed hers in two days and my eldest, Caroline, decided that watching YouTube videos on her iPod was a better use of her time. I didn't care much as I determined that the shelter would last about two weeks and this period of time was merely an early spring break for my kids.

Last Monday began week four of my family's shelter at home. Showering is optional, coffee is required. Charlotte has a fresh batch of fourth grade worksheets and Caroline has a rigorous schedule of assignments and virtual eighth-grade classes. My husband, Andy, also working from home, continues his schedule of entering our actual home office each morning around 8 am, shutting the door behind him, only to emerge around 6 pm when we call to him about dinner. The days blend one into another, and I fall into bed exhausted, with a headache and a heavy heart.

I've learned so much over the last month. I am happiest when my family spends 6-8 hours apart for five days of the week. I forget to brush my teeth when I don't have somewhere to go. I am thankful to live in a rural area. I don't miss wearing underwear or a bra. I can't stop taking photos of my pets sleeping. I enjoy baking with Charlotte. I'm pretty sure Carole killed her husband. I am a bad teacher, especially to Caroline who is in a high touch special education program.

Also, I am the primary parent, even in a pandemic. I migrated my home office from the dining room to the living room, as it is easier for me to help each girl with their worksheets, or getting into Google Classroom, when they are seated next to me. I excuse myself, during meeting chats, so I can Face Time with Caroline's teacher because we can't figure out how to share screens on Google Meet yet. In a ten minute time span, I am answering questions about the relationship between a point, a line and a surface, catching a Chromebook being thrown at me in frustration, letting the dog out, and answering an email. My work days last for roughly eight hours, so I repeat this cycle almost fifty times a day.

Before COVID-19, I felt overwhelmed by responsibility and perpetually incompetent at my duties. I worried that I am never able to give enough of myself to everyone who relies on me, resulting in me being a mediocre mother and an equally mediocre manager. In late February, I suggested to Caroline's principal that she give me detention, in place of Caroline, for accidentally throwing her report card in the trash instead of signing it so she could return it and avoid detention. I feel like Shittiest Parent of the Year when I miss Charlotte's school community gathering where she sings "You're a Grand Old Flag" with her class or has her own line in a poem about spring. My colleagues know I have children. I'm a proud parent, with photos of them in my office and an arsenal of endearing stories. I overshare to a fault and I let my team know when the kids are sick, or I have to take them to a doctor's appointment. Yet I'm sensitive to the fact that nobody who reports to me has children, and many women in leadership roles at my institution have children and successfully balance being awesome boss ladies and moms.

In 2018, my feelings of inadequacy overwhelmed me to the point that I stopped sleeping and fell into a cycle of extreme anxiety and depression. For eight months, I coped, hiding my breakdown to most, except my close family and friends, who's proximity prevented me from keeping my secret. I lived in fear that my vulnerability would cost me my (new) job and impact the credibility I was desperate to earn from new colleagues. Keep your problems in your closet and your armor on. Americans have developed a very specific professional culture. If there's no crying in baseball, then there is no vulnerability in employment.

Cue Brené Brown, who has helped destigmatize vulnerability in the workplace, and has even argued that it is necessary for healthy and productive teams. Her books, Ted Talks, essays and podcasts outline decades of lessons learned from studying vulnerability and it's close ties to shame. Her work has greatly impacted the way I work. As someone who has long considered herself too soft, too tender, and too weak to be a good leader, Brené has encouraged me to understand how my vulnerability can be an asset. It's a work in in progress.

Cue COVID-19, a time for strong, fearless leaders, leaders who have courage and tenacity, leaders who have focus, determination and a clear direction. Brené Brown is not the only expert in this pandemic sharing survival wisdom. The internet is full of advice, in the form of social media posts, podcasts, You Tube videos, websites and e-newsletters. Between "teaching" and emailing and Zooming last Monday. I drank my coffee and scrolled an e-newsletter titled, What to do when you're feeling "unprofessional" feelings at work. The article, written by Liz+Mollie, an illustrator/writer duo who, like Brené , offer a variety of mediums for professionals to explore workplace dynamics and the role of emotions at work. The newsletter, directed at women, provides suggestions for questions to ask our teams as we navigate the current crisis and offers some simple tips, including the suggestion, as a leader, to aim for selective vulnerability. My take-away: empathize with your employees but do not let them know you are losing your shit. Provide them with stability and demonstrate confidence even though you have no idea what the future holds for the team, or frankly the planet. Sounds about right because I'm looking at my institution's leaders right now and expecting exactly this behavior. Their slips in vulnerability could send me into an anxiety-fueled tail spin. I'm looking up to them now more than ever for support and guidance.

Which is why, after reading the article, it haunted me. I apologized to my team repeatedly for disappearing multiple times during a video call, typing, "be right back!" into the chat about 5 times during an hour-long planning session. I snapped at the kids too many times to count when they interrupted me while writing a time-sensitive email. After one particularly hard work call this week, a colleague texted me, knowing the meeting was impacting me. asking if I wanted to talk. I hung up from the video chat, called her and sobbed. In front of the kids. I sobbed and gasped for breath, shedding tears that had been mounting up and finally erupted when my vulnerability came out of hiding. The kids watched me as I furiously wiped the tears away and apologized to my colleague, hung up and then apologized to them. Well, shit Liz+Mollie. I did it. I felt unprofessional at work. I showed it. Plus, in a new twist of vulnerability, my kids got to witness all of it.

I want to empathize with my team without letting them know I'm feeling it as much, if not more than they are. I want to be the lighthouse, the beacon of stability, in the storm. I want to be strong and supportive, confident and strategic. Is the sign of a good parent and a good leader demonstrated in our actions at the time of a true global crisis? I want my team to know that I have our road map ready. I will not crack. I not let them down. Just like I won't let my kids down. Or Andy. Or my community.

I will social distance.

I will limit going out of my home.

I will disinfect my groceries.

I will Clorox wipe surfaces.

I will not touch my face.

I will use Purell.

I will wear a mask.

I will re-learn geometry and set a schedule and set boundaries.

I will not complain because I am safe and warm and not hungry.

I will be thankful and grateful.

I will be accountable.

I will be emotionally supportive.

I will be stable.

I will learn how to manage virtually, how to better communicate when I can't read body language or tone.

I will be accessible.

I will make space for emotions and guide others through their feelings.

I will not allow my anxiety to be a burden to others who count on me.

This is all unrealistic and unattainable, yet it is no different than the expectations upon women when we are not in crisis. We should be used to it by now, as we've leaned into it every day. We hide its impact well and I can only wonder, with great concern, what the impact will be on us when we are on the other side, whenever that will be. It is up to us, as women working with women who lead us, to allow there to be moments of "unprofessional" feelings, and to offer our leaders moments of grace and the opportunity to screw up and say, "I needed a moment. I'm back."

I will tell myself, "I may not be perfect but I'm pretty damn good at what I do."