I’ve made approximately 100 different lists over the last week. That’s what it takes to shrink a life from 2,500 square feet down to just 80. There are the lists of what I thought would happen each day. The new extended kind where I take all the things that should happen and add a million different steps. The list of what to take and what to donate. My girlfriend and I have a notebook just for to-do lists. 

As we counted down to the last 72 hours before I left, I caught myself studying the list at night. What was I missing? What order was I supposed to do it all in? For not-the-first time, the list was making me miserable. 

As a writer, I love a good list, but I don’t really enjoy its companion. If you’re an anxious list-maker like me, you know the one. The voice of constant questioning that asks if you’re doing enough. This wondering isn’t imagination but a tight wire that makes me feel like it’s all going to fall apart if I don’t get it right. It's supposed to give me confidence everything will get taken care of. The studying of it does not. 

At one point, my therapist suggested I get rid of my lists altogether. I almost fired her on the spot. How dare she question the value of the list? I say this sarcastically, but the wave of shock it inspired left me thinking. It was clear to me that I needed to stop doing things I knew were hurting me, but maybe making the list wasn’t the broken part. 

It was what I put on the list. 

Instead of burying myself in a list of things that felt important at the time, I’m trying something new. I leave a space between each must-do thing. In that space, I write something I want to do with no pressure of “should” or a finish line.

This isn’t a list of luxuries. In some cases, it’s simple things like taking a shower. Taking the dog for a walk. But these additions remind me that these days weren’t made for simply marching through the monotony. I am not just on this planet to work harder. It's ok that when I'm making the list, I put taking care of myself on it too.