Lady Uppity Throws a Pity Party

Lady Uppity woke up feeling spectacularly sorry for herself.

She briefly considered resisting it.

Then she remembered the rules.

If you’re going to throw a pity party…

throw an excellent one.

With great determination, she flung herself across the sofa, placed the back of one hand dramatically against her forehead, and released a sigh worthy of a silent movie actress.

“Oh,” she whispered to absolutely no one, “whatever shall I do?”

It was, she had to admit, an excellent beginning.

She drew the curtains.

Dim lighting was essential.

She found the saddest music she could think of. Not ordinary sad music. Music that would make even the houseplants question the meaning of existence.

Perfect.

Then she reviewed the guest list.

It was delightfully short.

No inspirational quotes.

Today, Rumi, Maya Angelou, and every cheerful life coach on the internet had been politely asked to stay home.

No one was permitted to remind her that everything happens for a reason.

Immediate expulsion.

Chocolate was welcome.

Solutions were not.

Most importantly…

“Would someone please stop trying to improve me for five minutes?”

Honestly.

She wasn’t looking for enlightenment.

She wasn’t trying to become the best version of herself.

She simply wanted permission to feel exactly as she felt without anyone handing her a podcast, a supplement, a five-step morning routine, or a miraculous new way to optimize her soul.

So she cried.

Not elegantly.

There was nothing cinematic about it.

Somewhere between the second ugly cry and the third dramatic sigh…

something shifted.

Not because she’d solved anything.

Not because she’d suddenly become grateful.

Not because she’d talked herself out of feeling sorry for herself.

She simply noticed that the feeling had stopped chasing her.

It had finally been invited inside.

And that’s when Lady Uppity made a rather inconvenient discovery.

She hadn’t been throwing herself a pity party after all.

She had mistaken grief for self-pity.

Or perhaps loneliness.

Or exhaustion.

Or simply the quiet ache of being human.

Whatever it was, it hadn’t needed fixing.

It had only wanted a little room to breathe.

She opened the curtains.

The sunlight hadn’t changed.

The world hadn’t changed.

Her circumstances certainly hadn’t changed.

But something inside had softened.

She realized she hadn’t spent the morning wallowing.

She had spent a few precious minutes being completely honest.

And honesty, she was beginning to suspect, was far more healing than pretending to be okay.

She discovered that feelings are terrible houseguests when left standing on the porch. Invite them in, offer them tea, and more often than not, they leave before dinner.

Feelings don’t always want to run the house.

Sometimes they simply want an invitation.

And a cup of tea.

Lady Uppity smiled.

Perhaps the perfect pity party wasn’t about feeling sorry for herself after all.

Perhaps it was simply another way of making room for what was already here.

She pulled the curtains wide open.

The party was over.

Nothing had been fixed.

Nothing had disappeared.

Something inside had become wonderfully spacious.

There was room now.

Room for grief.

Room for laughter.

Room for being exactly as she was.