Hi, my name is Claire and I am an enneagram one. From the first time I heard about the enneagram I knew I was a one. Ones were described as being likely to rearrange the dishwasher, which definitely applies to me. There might not be a determined right way to load a dishwasher, there are wrong ways, and I will find and do the right, efficient, best way. And, when I meet others who do not know the right way to load the dishwasher, I will teach them. Not because they are wrong, but because they are not right; they are not living to what they are capable of.

Being right, perfect even, directly correlates to my value in the world. I live in the black and white: something is either right or wrong, true or false, perfect or imperfect. Imperfection isn’t bad because it is imperfect, but because it isn’t upholding the beauty it is capable of.  

Everything, dishwashers, closets, myself, have potential to be better, so why don’t we try our best to reach that potential? This is a question I unknowingly am always asking, a never ending conversation always going on in my head.

A Letter To My Inner Voice

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You are often referred to as an inner critic, which I think it is an incorrect title. It limits your influence and is an incorrect description of our relationship. You are an inner cheerleader, corrector, and coach. Relentless, never-ending, and spiraling banter. Together we search for purpose; we search for what is right, what is true, what is perfect. We tirelessly, endlessly, constantly seek to make this world, others, but mostly ourselves, better.

The main things you say to me are “Claire, you can do better, do more. Claire, you knew better. Claire, that is not right.” Your expectations are high, and as a result my expectations are always high, there is no separation. Perfection is just the standard. You hold me accountable for every imperfect outcome, even ones out of my control, because nothing is really out of my control. You propel me to be in the details. To improve everything. Systems, people, myself, relationships, routines, the organization of the kitchen cabinet.

Sometimes I wonder what you look like. You are not like an angel and demon that sit on my shoulders providing opposing advice. But you are me, holding out a bar I will not reach. When I get close, and when I think perfection is within reach, you raise the bar one inch higher.

You help me see potential. In my friends, job, myself. But you expect me to reach my potential overnight and I feel like I let you down when I don’t. Friends often tell me things take time. But do they have to?

You wear glasses that see things as the way they could be. We always have them on, and I only see myself through those glasses. Everyone else sees me through those glasses too, right? They see the box I didn’t check, the whole30 diet that lasted 3 days, the snooze button I hit this morning, the Christmas cards being sent in January, the crack on my heart that hasn’t healed.

Together, we have an attention to details that makes others feel seen, loved, and cared for. But, your constant voice to not miss any detail, make any mistake, in turn makes me miss the hug from a friend, laugh with my roommate, or conversation with a stranger on the metro.

Our conversation doesn’t end. It is familiar. This conversation we have makes my feelings, our feelings louder, making the truth seem more distant.

We run down dark tunnels of thoughts together. I often trip, and don’t get back up. In those moments, you do not offer me your hand to pull me out of my spiral. I feel locked inside my brain. Locked inside you reminding me I didn’t do enough, I wasn’t the best I could be, I did something wrong.

Like the time I wanted to dance at a wedding. The music played and I felt a spontaneous urge to join in but you insisted I would look ridiculous and I saw this image of me not knowing how to use my arms or hips, off-beat, uncoordinated, imperfect. I listened to you, sat back down, observed, smiling and nodding, listening to the lie that I belong and enjoy the sidelines.

At our worst, I’m a prisoner inside my own head, unable to distinguish your voice from reality.

But what about the time I wanted to do a triathlon? Remember, we printed off the training plan, signed up for swim lessons, and weekly jumped in the cold water washing off the idea that we would fail through routine and discipline. Do the thing you cannot do became our motto, one you reminded me of when I tried on the spandex bike shorts for the first time. When the day of the race came, and we thought we would glide through the water, the anxiety greeted me immediately. I couldn’t see. I inhaled water. I eyed the canoe to the left of me thinking that was my fate. But, your constant voice said ‘Claire, kick pull breathe, kick pull breathe. Look, you’re past the first buoy. Kick, pull, breathe. Claire, look, you’re doing it. Just like we practiced.’ Steady, constant, methodical.

At our best, we see the potential energy in people, this world, and maybe even ourselves. Rather than thinking of the dishes in the kitchen sink, we see, really see, the hearts sitting around the kitchen table. Instead of the dwelling on the boxes that need to be checked, we accept grace in the journey of reaching the mark, and grace for maybe not meeting it. While still seeking the good, the true, the beautiful, we sometimes take off our glasses to see it is all around us, and maybe even in me.