The Good Girl Got a Clipboard

I thought I knew the Good Girl.

I knew the version of her who wanted to be liked.

Who kept the peace.

Who swallowed her feelings.

Who tried not to disappoint anyone.

Who learned how to be agreeable, helpful, easy.

Who believed, somewhere along the way, that being good might keep everything around her steady.

I've spent a lot of time letting that version of her go.

Learning to speak.

Learning to say no.

Learning that someone else's disappointment doesn't automatically mean I've done something wrong.

Learning that I don't have to make myself smaller, quieter, easier or more palatable to belong.

I thought I had a pretty good handle on her.

Apparently, she's clever.

She didn't disappear.

She got a clipboard.

The competent Good Girl

This version doesn't necessarily look like people pleasing.

She looks responsible.

Capable.

Self-aware.

She reads the books.

Does the inner work.

Reflects on her behaviour.

Learns about nervous systems and patterns and communication and boundaries.

She asks herself hard questions.

She owns her mistakes.

She tries to understand other people's perspectives.

She looks for the part that's hers.

All beautiful things.

Until responsibility quietly becomes over-responsibility.

Until curiosity becomes trying to understand enough for everyone.

Until communication becomes finding exactly the right words so another person will finally understand.

Until self-reflection becomes searching for the thing I need to fix so the situation will turn out differently.

Until growth becomes another way of believing that if I just do enough, I can somehow manage the outcome.

And underneath all of that competence can be the same old Good Girl belief wearing much better clothes:

If this doesn't work, I haven't done enough.

Oh.

There you are.

When growth becomes another form of control

This one is uncomfortable for me.

Because I value self-reflection.

I want to understand myself.

I want to notice my patterns instead of blindly repeating them.

I want to take responsibility when I hurt someone.

I want to communicate better.

I want to repair when I've caused a rupture.

I don't want to abandon any of that.

But I'm beginning to see that there is a difference between taking responsibility for how I show up and taking responsibility for what happens next.

I can communicate clearly.

I cannot make someone understand me.

I can listen with curiosity.

I cannot make someone offer me the same curiosity in return.

I can apologize.

I cannot make someone repair with me.

I can hold a boundary.

I cannot control how someone feels about that boundary.

I can change my behaviour.

I cannot do another person's changing for them.

I can love someone deeply.

I cannot single-handedly create the relationship I want to have with them.

That distinction sounds obvious written on a page.

Living it is something else entirely.

Because over-responsibility can feel remarkably similar to love.

It can sound like:

Maybe I can explain it differently.

Maybe I need to understand what's underneath this.

Maybe if I regulate myself better, this won't escalate.

Maybe there's another perspective I haven't considered.

Maybe I need to communicate more clearly.

Maybe I need to do more work on myself.

Sometimes those questions are exactly the ones we need to ask.

And sometimes they are the Good Girl quietly picking up her clipboard and assuming responsibility for the entire room.

Owning my part without owning everything

Perhaps this is another layer of what it means for me to let the Good Girl go.

Not becoming careless.

Not refusing accountability.

Not deciding that my behaviour doesn't affect anyone else.

Not throwing my hands in the air and declaring that nothing is my responsibility.

Almost the opposite.

I want to become more precise about responsibility.

What is actually mine?

My words are mine.

My behaviour is mine.

My reactions are mine.

My choices are mine.

My boundaries are mine.

My apologies are mine.

My repair is mine.

My willingness to listen is mine.

My willingness to change is mine.

The way I choose to participate in a relationship is mine.

But another person's interpretation of me?

Not entirely mine.

Their choices?

Not mine.

Their willingness to communicate?

Not mine.

Their willingness to repair?

Not mine.

Their growth?

Not mine.

Their relationship with someone else?

Definitely not mine.

And the eventual outcome of something involving multiple human beings, each with their own history, needs, choices and agency?

That was never mine to control.

I don't need the concession

There's another piece tangled into this for me.

The need to be understood.

When someone misunderstands my intentions, my behaviour or what I'm trying to say, I want to explain.

And if they still don't understand?

I want to explain better.

Surely if I can just find the right combination of words, they'll see the distinction I'm trying to make.

But I'm learning something that I want to carry forward:

I don't need the concession.

I can listen to someone's criticism and ask myself honestly whether there is something in it that belongs to me.

If there is, I can own it.

Without owning everything else.

I can say:

You're right about that piece.

And still say:

I don't agree with the rest.

Accountability doesn't require total surrender.

And disagreement doesn't require a courtroom.

I don't have to keep presenting evidence until everyone reaches the same verdict.

Sometimes another person is going to misunderstand me.

Sometimes they're going to think I'm wrong when I don't believe I am.

Sometimes I will be wrong and won't realize it until later.

Sometimes we'll simply see something differently.

I can survive all of those possibilities.

Putting down the clipboard

Maybe that's the invitation I'm sitting with now.

Not to care less.

Not to stop learning.

Not to stop reflecting.

Not to stop trying to show up well in the relationships that matter to me.

But to notice when responsibility quietly crosses the line into trying to manage outcomes that were never mine to manage.

To notice the moment curiosity becomes fixing.

The moment communication becomes convincing.

The moment accountability becomes self-blame.

The moment helping becomes carrying.

The moment love becomes responsibility for another person's work.

And then, perhaps, put down the clipboard.

Own what is mine.

Repair what is mine.

Change what is mine.

Tend to what is mine.

And allow what belongs to someone else to remain with them.

Apparently, “let the Good Girl go” had more to show me than I realized.

I thought I was releasing the woman who needed everyone to approve of her.

I hadn't noticed the exceptionally competent woman standing behind her, quietly trying to make sure everything turned out okay.

Maybe she can rest too.

Always,

Juniper