One of many side-effects of adulting involves learning to recognise your weaknesses and strengths. During my people-pleasing years, I was invested in perpetuating a myth about my general ‘togetherness’. I wanted to believe in my efficiency, my uncanny ability to accomplish many things in a single day, often pushing my body to exceed its limits. I used to host dinners for 20 or 30 people and do all the cooking myself over a day or two. It brought me immense satisfaction to witness my success at making something ambitious happen. It made me feel special, like I could do something that few others would even consider. In many ways, I was doing what felt very normal in our household—cooking large portions. But it was also a love language. I loved being able to cater to all my guests’ specificities. There was a peculiar thrill to the whole affair.

As someone now on the other side of 35, and a mother, I have become so much more restrained about such ambitions. Instead of a feast, I focus on three delicious dishes. Instead of 20 people, I invite not more than five. When I think about the reason for my evolving minimalism, I feel sure it has a lot to do with recognising the levels of stress I allowed for while I did these unthinkable things. I had completely normalised anxiety.