Perfectly Flawed Brokenness

a Guest blog by April Lovelace Simmons 

I have a confession to make. I am an anxious person. Some people call it being a worrier or tightly wound. This does not mean that I am a negative person or always barking orders at everyone around me (though I do that sometimes, and to my great horror, I find it invigorating). Having a predisposition to anxiety and being raised by two perfectionists really did not weight the scales in my favor. My anxiety waxed and waned through my twenties, sometimes crescendoing into a tsunami of frenzied behaviors (mostly cleaning and eating). The grand finale came as I entered the thirties and my health, personal, and professional life were such that I had to change or the misery would crush me. With several very specific goals in mind, I began therapy. One of these goals was to learn to cope better so that I would not be a neurotic, controlling horror show of a mother.

So, I sat on my therapist’s overstuffed chair...