SUNDAY SEEDS OF THOUGHT: Overnight Oats, Not Overnight Overboard

overnightoats: Yeah. Sunday Seeds of Thought on Rooted in Rising. I'm Dr. Carmela Maxwell. Before we get started, make sure you're following or subscribe to Rooted in Rising wherever you're listening. And if today's episode reminds you of somebody who needs to sit their ass down, send it to them. Actually, send it to the friend who invites everybody over and then spends the next 48 hours recovering from having company. Because today we're going to talk about something that I think a lot of us are guilty of. And I want to start with a very important public service announcement. It's called Overnight Oats, not overnight overboard. Some of y'all need to hear that. Because why is it that we can spend an entire Saturday night cleaning, organizing, shopping, cooking, decorating? And preparing for people who have known us for fifteen years. People who have seen us cry. People who have seen us in a really bad state. People who have seen us in sweatpants with holes in them. People who know exactly how chaotic our lives can get. And suddenly, because they're coming over on Sunday, we're preparing the house like the fucking president is arriving for a state dinner. Why? These people know us. They have seen the inside of our cars. And for some of us, our center consoles. They have seen us at our absolute worst. And here we are at 11:47 on a Saturday night, scrubbing the baseboards with a toothbrush, because apparently somebody might get down on their hands and knees and conduct a cleanliness inspection. Who is coming over? The health department? And here's the really unfortunate part. By the time Sunday arrives, we're exhausted. Our backs hurt. We're irritable. We're running on caffeine. And the very event we were so excited about hosting, we barely have the energy to enjoy it. So today, I want to talk about why we do this. Because sometimes what looks like hospitality is actually perfectionism wearing an apron. And sometimes the person we're trying hardest to impress is ourselves. Let me paint a picture. It's Saturday afternoon. We have people coming over tomorrow. You tell yourself you're just going to tidy up a little. Nothing major. Just vacuum, wipe down the counters, and maybe run to the grocery store. Simple, reasonable, manageable. And then something happens. You notice the refrigerator shelves. Well, those could use a good cleaning. Then you notice the pantry. Maybe you should reorganize that. And since you're already doing the pantry, You might as well wipe down the cabinets. And since you're wiping down the cabinets, you suddenly become aware of a mysterious spot on the wall that has apparently existed since the Obama administration. But now it needs to go. Right now. Immediately. Then you're at target. And you went in for paper towels. But somehow you're leaving with candles, flowers. A new serving tray, matching napkins, and a decorative blanket that serves absolutely no purpose other than holding three other things that you didn't need. And suddenly, your $12 errand has become a $147 personality disorder. I'm kidding. Mostly. But you get the point. What started as preparing your home for company has become an entire home improvement initiative. And nobody asks for this. Not one person. Your friends are literally coming over to eat pasta and laugh about something stupid that happened in 08. They do not care whether your hand soap matches your kitchen aesthetic. But you care. And that brings us to the first question. Who are we really preparing for? Now, I love a clean house. I love a comfortable space. I love when things smell nice. I think there's something beautiful about welcoming people into your home and making them feel cared for. That's not the problem. The problem starts when creating a welcoming environment turns into proving that we have everything together. Because somewhere along the way, some of us learned that being a good host meant being an exceptional host. The house must be spotless. The food must be perfect. Everything must be ready. Nobody should see the laundry. Nobody should know the dishwasher is full. Nobody should discover that the closet contains approximately forty seven things we threw in there five minutes before they arrived. And God forbid somebody needs to open that closet. Because at that point, we're just going to have to move. But beneath the humor, there's something worth examining. Perfectionism isn't always about wanting things to look nice. Sometimes it's about trying to control how other people perceive us. We don't want to seem disorganized. We don't want to seem overwhelmed. We don't want people thinking we're struggling. And for those of us who are parents, professionals, caregivers, Or the person everybody considers responsible, that pressure can become even stronger. Because we've gotten used to being the one who has it all together. So even when we're supposed to be relaxing, we're still performing competence. We're still managing impressions. We're still trying to make sure nobody sees the parts of our lives that are simply human. And I have to ask. When did being human become something we needed to clean up before a company arrived? Your friends are not coming to audit your house. Let's talk about the people you're actually inviting. Your friends, your family, the people who love you. Hopefully. Because if somebody is coming over to judge whether you've dusted your ceiling fan, I have some questions about why that person has an invitation. But generally speaking The people who genuinely care about us are not coming over to evaluate our housekeeping. They're coming because they want to see us. They want to talk. They want to laugh. They want to eat. They want to spend time together. And some of us are so busy preparing the environment that we forget we're part of the experience. Think about that. You spend eight hours getting everything perfect. And then your guests arrive. You're tired. You're distracted. You're thinking about the dishes. You're wondering whether there's enough food. You're mentally calculating how long cleanup is going to take. Somebody asks how you've been, and you say, good. Meanwhile, your feet are throbbing, you haven't eaten since breakfast. And you're approximately two minor inconveniences away from losing your shit. And the people you invited over, they would probably have just been happy eating pizza on paper plates. In fact, they might have enjoyed you more if you weren't so exhausted. But here's something I want you to remember: people cannot fully enjoy your presence if you're too depleted to be present. And sometimes The greatest gift you can offer the people you love isn't a perfectly prepared home. It's an available version of yourself. Now, psychologically, there are a few things happening here. First, there's perfectionism. And perfectionism often involves setting standards that are much higher than the situation actually requires. Not because those standards are objectively necessary. But because falling short can feel uncomfortable. Then there's what we might call impression management. We want people to see us a certain way, competent, organized, successful, put together. And then there's something else I think deserves attention anticipatory anxiety. Sometimes we become so focused on preventing something from going wrong that we create an entirely different problem in the process. We worry about being over prepared. So we overprepare. We worry about being judged. So we overperform. We worry about disappointing people. So we exhaust ourselves trying to exceed expectations nobody actually communicated. And here's the irony. The thing we we were trying to protect, our enjoyment of the event, becomes the very thing that we sacrifice. We prepare so hard for joy that we have nothing left when joy arrives. Let me say that again. We prepare so hard for joy that we have nothing left when joy arrives. That's not hospitality. That's self exhaustion with a shakery board. And here's where this becomes bigger than one dinner party. Because Sunday isn't the end of the story. Sunday is also the day before Monday. And when we spend Saturday exhausting ourselves, then Sunday entertaining people while exhausted, we don't actually enter the work week rested. We enter it depleted. Monday morning arrives, the alarm goes off, and suddenly we need a vacation from the weekend. We're tired, we can't concentrate, we're already behind on sleep. And then the work week hasn't even started. Then Tuesday comes and Wednesday, and we spend half of the week trying to recover from something that was supposed to be enjoyable. Now, don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting at all that we should never host events or put effort into making things special. I love special. I love celebrations. I love gathering people together. But I think we need to start considering the actual cost of the experiences we're creating, not just the financial cost, the physical cost, the emotional cost, the mental cost. Because if hosting a Sunday brunch requires you to sacrifice your Saturday night, your Sunday energy, and your Monday functioning, perhaps we need to rethink th the production budget. By production budget, I mean your nervous system. Because apparently we've started treating casual gatherings like they're being catered by Martha Stewart and evaluated by Gordon Ramsey. And neither of those people is on the guest list. Stop confusing extra effort with extra love. I think this is especially important for people who express love through doing things. I am definitely one of them. Cooking, cleaning, planning, organizing, making sure everyone is comfortable, making sure nobody needs anything. There's nothing wrong with showing love through effort. But here's the distinction I want you to consider. More effort doesn't always mean more love. Sometimes more effort simply means more effort. The homemade dessert might be wonderful, but so might the store bought one. The elaborate dinner might be memorable, but so might ordering takeout and spending three hours laughing around the kitchen table. The spotless house might be beautiful. But so might the slightly messy one where everyone feels comfortable taking their shoes off and being themselves. And sometimes, in our effort to give everybody else a wonderful experience, we forget to include ourselves in the equation. You're not just the host. You're also a person who deserves to enjoy the gathering. You deserve to sit down. You deserve to eat while the food is still hot. You deserve to participate in the conversation. You deserve to laugh without simultaneously calculating how many dishes are in the sink. And you deserve to go to bed Sunday night without feeling like you just completed a twelve hour shift. So here's what I want you to try the next time you're preparing to host something. Ask yourself what actually needs to be done? Not what looks impressive, not what would make the house look like a magazine. Not what would convince everybody that you're thriving. What actually needs to be done? The bathroom should be clean. There should be somewhere comfortable to sit. The food should be safe and enjoyable. And ideally, everybody should leave with the same number of children they arrived with. That's a successful event. Everything else? Optional. And if you want to do more because you genuinely enjoy it, wonderful. But if you're doing more because you feel anxious about doing less, pay attention to that. Because there's a difference between doing something from joy and doing something from fear. There's a difference between creating something beautiful and feeling like you have to prove something. And there's a difference between preparing your home and punishing yourself. So this Sunday. I want to challenge you to stop measuring your worth by how much you can accomplish before somebody rings the doorbell. You do not need to earn connection through exhaustion. You do not need to prove your competence through perfectly folded towels. You do not need to demonstrate your love by making yourself miserable. And you certainly do not need to spend your entire Saturday night scrubbing a room nobody is going to enter. If you're hosting people today, Enjoy them. Sit down. Eat something. Laugh. Let the dishes wait. And if the house isn't perfect, good. That means somebody actually lives there. And if somebody notices a little dust, hand them a sover. I'm kidding. Unless they really want to help. In which case, absolutely take advantage of that opportunity. So here's the seed I want you to carry into this week. The people who love you came to experience your presence, not your perfection. And if you have to sacrifice your well-being to create a perfect experience for everyone else, maybe the experience needs to be a little less perfect. Because rest matters. Your energy matters. Your time matters. And the memories you're trying to create should include you actually enjoying them. So next time you're preparing for company, remember, it's called overnight oats, not overnight overboard. You can prepare without overperforming. You can host without exhausting yourself. You can make people feel welcome without making yourself miserable. And you can let the house look like human beings actually live in it. Because they do. So don't forget to stay rooted in who you are. Keep rising into who you're becoming. And please, for the love of everything holy, stop cleaning the baseboards at midnight for people who are coming over to eat chips and gossip. Go to bed. Until next time.