Michelle

Michelle, 32, is hosting two friends for a casual dinner. The pasta’s almost ready. Music’s playing low. She’s plated everything, poured the wine, and just as they sit down, one friend says, “Oh, did we forget the garlic bread?”

A simple question. But Michelle freezes for a moment. Her stomach tightens. Her heart drops half a beat.

I forgot. I should’ve remembered. I always mess something up.

She laughs it off, says, “I’ll make up for it next time and do a full banquet.”

But inside, she’s spiraling:

Why didn’t I double-check the list? Why didn’t I plan better? How did I miss something so obvious? Okay, just let it go. omg, why can’t I just let it go?!

She suddenly wants to clean something. Do something. Just to quiet the voice in her head.

Michelle didn’t learn this pattern out of nowhere. Growing up, she was expected to act older than she was. To be responsible. To anticipate needs. And when she didn’t, she wasn’t met with warmth. Just blame. Disappointment. Silence. She learned: If something’s missing, it’s on you. If people are let down, you’ve failed.

So now, even a question about garlic bread feels like evidence that she’s not enough. To protect herself, Michelle becomes hyper-competent. She hosts beautifully. She checks in often. She remembers every birthday. She holds herself to impossible standards, not because she wants praise, but because she’s afraid of what it means if she gets it wrong.

Michelle’s not overreacting.

She’s overcorrecting.

For all the times she was told that “good enough” wasn’t.

For all the ways she learned love had to be earned, not assumed.

It was never about the garlic bread. It was the weight she gave it - the pressure to prove she’s thoughtful enough, prepared enough, enough.

Maybe, garlic bread or not, she can trust that the people who love her are there for more than what she brings.

They’re there for her.