Take A Seat Martha Stewart

Hi lovely,

The year I decided our family Christmas tree should be made entirely out of edible ornaments was, in hindsight, the absolute height of my hyper-independent era. I was a college student freshly inflated with the kind of confidence that only comes from being twenty, unsupervised, and in possession of a hot glue gun. It was peak Martha Stewart time, and Martha had me in a chokehold.

I dried orange slices like I was running a pioneer homestead. I strung cranberries and popcorn until my fingers were permanently pruned. I studded clementines with cloves until my fingertips burned. And because I apparently believed I was both God and Mrs. Claus, I stayed up until two in the morning making homemade gingerbread moons and stars. I told myself I was going for “magical.” In reality, I was going for “please think I’m capable and impressive and completely fine.”

Those two desires were braided together so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Around five in the morning, when normal humans are asleep and not performing holiday pageantry, the entire house woke to a giant crash. The Christmas tree had toppled over under the sheer weight of citrus, cookies, and my unresolved emotional needs. I burst into tears. My mother made hot chocolate for everyone, and we ate broken ornaments for breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world. That moment, messy and honest and sticky with icing, was the truest part of that whole holiday season.

When I look back on that night now, I see my hyper independence flashing like a neon sign. I was so used to doing everything alone that it didn’t even occur to me to ask for help. It felt safer to stay up all night than to admit I might need support. It felt easier to power through the exhaustion than to let someone see me fumble. I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, pushed long enough, and performed beautifully enough, the outcome would say something good about me.

I wish that was the turning point for me but it wasn’t until many, many (many) years later that recovery eventually showed me the cost of that way of living.

Hyper independence looks heroic from the outside, but on the inside it feels like pressure. It feels like holding your breath for years. It feels like believing your healing must be earned. It feels like tying your worth to how much you can carry without setting anything down.

In my own recovery, hyper independence showed up as overfunctioning to avoid feeling. It showed up as taking care of everyone else so I didn’t have to face the truth that I had no idea how to let anyone care for me. It showed up as confusing self-reliance with connection, because letting people close required honesty, and honesty felt too bright, too close, too much.

Hyper independence may start as protection, but it can quietly turn into a loneliness shaped like burnout.

The antidote is so much softer. It doesn’t arrive with a crash; it arrives as permission. It begins with allowing your needs to be witnessed. Not fixed, not solved, just witnessed. There is a relief in being seen in your tiredness, your overwhelm, your hunger for rest. There is a steadiness that comes from letting someone know you are struggling before you collapse on the floor next to a fallen Christmas tree.

Another truth that steadies me now is the dissolving of the old myth that worth equals productivity. Recovery reminds us that we are not measured by how much we accomplish or hold together. We are measured by presence. Honesty. Tender connection. By the ways we let ourselves be fully human.

Hyper independence still shows up sometimes. Afterall, old patterns love an encore. But now when I notice myself slipping into overfunctioning, I think of that gingerbread-laden tree. I think of the crash. I think of my mother in her robe, making hot chocolate at dawn. I think of all of us eating our beautifully broken ornaments. I think of how deeply I wanted everything to feel perfect, and how much more honest it felt once it all fell down.

These days, I practice reaching out sooner. I let myself be seen before the collapse. I ask for help with things that matter and things that don’t. I let myself be held in small ways. I slow down enough to let life meet me halfway.

Interdependence is the royal icing of healing. It’s the moment you stop trying to hold up the whole tree alone and let someone steady the trunk with their hands.

It’s a softer way of living. And honestly, a much sweeter one.

Our Wednesday Wonder Recovery Call is tonight at 8 pm ET. Bring your heart, your tired self, your questions about hyper independence, and whatever tenderness you’re carrying today. Christmas cookies and crumb-covered keyboards are welcome.

I love you.
Keep going.