The Freedom to Wear the Hat
On healing, lingering, and learning to stop watching myself live
One day last week, I was standing in a National Trust shop looking at what I thought was a rather impressive wide-brimmed hat.
It would be just perfect for keeping the sun off me on this really hot day. I loved the look of it.
I tried it on.
It briefly crossed my mind that my young adult boys would definitely roll their eyes.
And then I thought, No. I like it.
So I bought it.
I wore it. I took photographs in it. I enjoyed it.
And somewhere along the way, I realised that I was just happily wearing the hat.
I wasn’t watching myself and wondering what other people thought of me.
Perhaps that’s why something as insignificant as buying a hat has stayed with me since I came home. Because actually, it represented something much bigger.
Julian and I were staying at our friends’ house on the Staffordshire-Shropshire border. It was a wonderful respite break from my everyday responsibilities, and I found myself really relaxing into it.
We geeked out together.
We wandered around National Trust properties enjoying the architecture, paintings, history, gardens and nature. I disappeared down Christian history rabbit holes, looking for little details and quirky facts.
I took the photographs I wanted to take. We stopped when something grabbed our attention. I chatted away to volunteers and asked far too many questions.
We lingered.
Occasionally I thought that, if the boys had been with us, they’d probably have been moving me on by now. But even that thought just made me smile.
This was Julian and me being who we are, enjoying what we enjoy, and having a wonderful time.
There was no need to hurry.
We didn’t have to rush from room to room because somebody had got bored. There was no pressure to get on to the next place. I could stand and really look. I could read every last word on the information board, ask another question, take another photograph or simply sit for a while.
I was able to linger.
And somehow, on this holiday, time itself felt different.
Nearly a quarter of a century ago, I was preparing for our wedding. For the fortnight leading up to the big day, I had created a colour-coded timetable detailing who was doing what, when and where.
One morning at work, it was sitting beside me on my desk when a couple of colleagues noticed it. One of them burst out laughing.
“Hey Andrea, I bet you’ve got one of those in your bag for the honeymoon too.”
It was funny because everyone knew there was a little bit of truth in it.
I’ve always been a planner. I like organisation. I like doing things well.
And, yes, there’s some perfectionism in there too.
I’m still the woman with the colour-coded calendar. My life now probably needs one more than ever. Mum’s carers have one colour. I have another. Different family members have theirs too.
Organisation isn’t the baddie in this story. It’s a skill, and sometimes it’s essential.
But what I realised on this holiday is that I don’t have to organise my joy.
A younger version of me would probably have approached holidays with a subconscious desire to holiday well.
Where are we going? What time do we need to leave? What can we fit in? Are we making the most of the day? Where next?
Something was different this time.
Yes, I made some plans because I haven’t suddenly become somebody I’m not.
But the plan wasn’t in charge.
Curiosity was allowed to interrupt.
A conversation could take longer than expected. Something beautiful could cause us to stop. We could change our minds.
We could linger.
I wasn’t trying to carry out a plan to optimise my joy.
Part of what allowed me to holiday like this was the respite from caring. In ordinary life, there are things to remember, coordinate and anticipate. There is information to hold in my head. Even when nothing urgent is happening, responsibility can occupy a lot of mental space.
But for those few days, I wasn’t carrying it all.
And what surprised me was what appeared in the space that left behind.
Nothing huge, worthy or productive.
A hat.
An old house.
A painting.
A bridge.
A photograph.
A fascinating conversation.
A historical rabbit hole.
I had room in my mind for wonder.
As I sit here writing, I wonder whether this holiday could have happened quite like this at any other time in my life.
In the past, I was much more attuned to other people’s responses.
Do they approve?
Are they enjoying themselves?
Am I taking too long?
Am I being silly?
What does everybody else need?
I can see now that much of that was people-pleasing. I’ve come to understand some of it as fawning. Some of it was probably simply my perfectionism and my desire to get things right.
But as I’ve grown, as I’ve healed, and perhaps simply as I’ve got older, something has changed.
I’m much less likely to monitor myself living.
It’s not that I’ve stopped caring about other people. In fact, I think I’m better able to care about other people now that I’m not disappearing from my own experience.
I’m still the woman who loves a colour-coded planner. I still like to organise things, and I still like things done well.
But I’m also a woman who is curious, playful, interested, creative and easily fascinated.
I’m quite happy to chat to a National Trust volunteer for ages about something obscure.
Healing hasn’t changed who I am.
It’s given me more of myself.
And I’m letting her out.
My perfectionist organiser doesn’t have to be the gatekeeper anymore.
So now I’m sitting at home on my bed, looking at my fairly ordinary hat and acknowledging that my boys wouldn’t choose it. Maybe other people wouldn’t either.
But that’s not the point.
I love the hat.
And now it’s a tiny reminder of something I don’t want to lose as I return to the calendars and responsibilities of ordinary life.
I can say:
I like this.
I’m interested in this.
I’m going to stop here.
I want to learn more.
This delights me.
And I don’t have to justify any of those things.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts of healing.
I can stop watching myself live and simply get on with living.