$pent Millennial

Dear Reader,

Here’s to imperfect decisions.

To bad timing and good-enough choices.

A few weeks ago, Jesse and I decided to try our hand at a little balcony garden. Jalapeños and onions—nothing ambitious, just something small and hopeful. 

And then, of course, a March blizzard rolled through last weekend and reminded us who’s actually in charge.

It felt… familiar.

That quiet, almost disproportionate frustration and shame over something small. That internal voice that wants to label it as failure, as if planting a little too early says something meaningful about who I am.

I’m a recovering perfectionist. And even these tiny, everyday moments—like when to plant something on a balcony—can feel loaded. Not because they are, but because of what they represent.

Because somewhere along the way, decisions stopped being just decisions. They became reflections of identity.

So much of who we believe ourselves to be is shaped early on—through experiences, through patterns, through the labels placed on us (often by well-meaning adults). For me, one of the loudest messages growing up was that I was “smart.” It showed up in a hundred different ways, but the core message was always the same: this is who you are.

And while that identity opened doors and built confidence, it also came with something else—pressure.

Pressure to maintain it. To prove it. To avoid anything that might contradict it. Because if you’re “the smart one,” then what happens when you make a decision that doesn’t work out? What happens when you get it wrong?

Suddenly, even something as small as planting jalapeños too early doesn’t feel small. Because it’s never just about the jalapeños (or my gardening abilities). It becomes a reflection of judgment—of whether I made the “right” call, of whether I’m living up to the version of myself I’ve carried for so long. The version of me that others expect from me. 

Because then there are the roles we take on in service of our family and community systems.

In large families especially, roles can form out of necessity. They help everything function. But when those roles become rigid—when they stop allowing space for complexity—they can quietly shape how we move through the world in ways that are less than healthy and whole. 

For me, growing up in a large family full of big needs, I became the one nobody had to worry about.

At home, at school—there were always others with bigger needs. And so I learned to handle things on my own. To be self-sufficient. To be steady. To be okay, even when I wasn’t.

Over time, that role expanded. It wasn’t just about taking care of myself, but about anticipating needs, solving problems, keeping the peace, showing up for others. Being the reliable one.

And with that came another layer of pressure.

To always be “good.” To always have it together, handled. To not need too much. To be the one who holds things up, not the one who lets things fall apart.

The trick is how quietly this settles in. It starts to feel natural—like this is just who you are, rather than something you learned to be. Until, eventually, you realize how much it shapes the way you show up— and the way you relate to others. 

Because we are not the only ones playing roles to maintain an identity. 

The roles we play are constantly sharing a stage with the roles the people we love carry.

For example, my partner, Jesse, is deeply caring, protective, thoughtful in the way he shows up and wants to provide and take care of me. It’s something I don’t take for granted. 

And yet, even something beautiful can carry its own kind of weight.

Because when someone you love wants your happiness so deeply, decision-making can start to feel … heavy.

When he says things like, “I just want to do what makes you happy,” it can land as pressure that the choice is all on my shoulders, and if I choose wrong then I’m the reason we end up stressed, or disappointed, or off course.

And so the stakes rise.

Not just for big, life-shaping decisions—but for small ones, too.

All of it—these identities, these roles, these well-meaning dynamics—can quietly build a world where there is immense pressure to never make the wrong choice. To get the timing right. To be thoughtful enough, smart enough, careful enough to avoid missteps.

It begins to feel impossible. 

Because it is. 

The truth is, there are no perfect decisions.

That’s the part that’s both freeing and deeply uncomfortable.

There’s no version of life where we think hard enough, plan well enough, or care deeply enough to eliminate uncertainty. There are only the decisions we make—and what we do next.

And if I’m honest, the part of me that has carried me the furthest isn’t the part that was labeled “smart.”

It’s the part that knows how to recover.

The part that can pivot. That can zoom out and see the bigger picture. That understands that one imperfect decision doesn’t define the whole story.

Because this life—if we’re lucky—is long.

It’s a long game. 

A decision that doesn’t go as planned doesn’t mean we’re off track. It just means we’re living. 

And a jalapeño plant that didn’t survive a late snowstorm shouldn’t stop us from trying again.

Growing requires trying. Trying requires risk. And risk guarantees that sometimes, things won’t go the way we hoped.

But that’s not the opposite of a good life. That is a good life.

It’s what allows us to say yes to things. To take chances. To experience life rather than control it.

Because if we’re not growing, we’re not really living. (As our jalapeño seeds know all too well.) 

So here’s to the messy, imperfect, and poorly timed decisions.

To the brilliant, foolish, thoughtful, flawed humans that we are—doing our best with what we have, learning as we go.

And maybe, gently, to loosening the grip of the identities and roles that no longer fit quite the same. To allowing ourselves to be more whole. More complex. More human.

Until next week—take care,

Everett