I Paint in My Pajamas Now

And THAT Voice That Says I'm a Loser for It

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You can read it below, online, or in the Substack app. Or if you prefer you can also listen to it online or in the app.

I Paint in My Pajamas Now (And the Voice That Says I’m a Loser for It)

Wild hair. Paint-stained hands. A sweatshirt that says exactly who I am.

Once upon a time in the life of Monica, mornings had a certain shape.

She’d wake up, pour her coffee, stare out the window. Sometimes she journaled. Sometimes she didn’t. She’d meander into the bathroom after a few sips, get herself ready—shower, hair, real clothes, the whole bit. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was familiar. Then came the kitchen wander. What am I eating today? And after that, the patio check-in—see who was hanging around the building, maybe talk for a bit.

All fine. All… fine.

She’d come back upstairs, try to stir up some energy around her art, maybe paint a little, get bored with that, then take herself for a walk. Pop into local shops downtown, chat with the owners. People she loved, people who knew her name.

But deep down?

She was dressing for an audience that didn’t exist.

Making herself presentable for... what? A trip to the patio? A walk past strangers? She’d stand in front of her closet, picking out real clothes, and think: This is what responsible women do. This is what it means to take yourself seriously.

But the whole time, some quiet part of her was screaming: I don’t want to.

And she’d silence it. Put on the jeans anyway. Because staying in pajamas felt like giving up. Felt like depression. Felt like what happens when you stop trying.

Except—she was trying. Just not at the things that mattered.

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Then life shifted.

She committed to writing on Substack every day. Not as one more thing on the list—but as the first thing. Before the shower. Before the performance of readiness. And suddenly everything else rearranged itself around that center.

Her mornings stopped feeling like echoes of her old married life.

Because, funny thing… she realized she’d been living the exact same routine she had when she was a wife.

Same motions. Same pacing. Same invisible script. No man in the house, but the rules stuck around.

And when she finally saw it—she laughed.

Because she didn’t need that old rhythm. She didn’t even like it anymore.

Turns out, she liked staying in her pajamas. Not every day. But many days. She liked the flow of sipping coffee while answering comments, writing new words, connecting with people who get it. That was her percolation now.

Circulate to percolate, her big sister used to say.

Well… she does circulate. Just not through Target aisles and neighborhood sidewalks. She circulates online—with her soul-first community, her writing rhythm, her breathing practice, her paintbrush.

And when the world outside is covered in ice? She doesn’t beat herself up for skipping the walk. She doesn’t perform productivity in a full face of makeup just to feel “valid.”

She names it for what it is:

A cocoon.

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But here’s the part I don’t usually say out loud:

I still judge myself for this.

I still wonder what people would think if they truly—I mean truly—saw me. Saw how many mornings I don’t get dressed. Saw how little I leave the house some weeks. Saw that I’ve sort of… disappeared from town.

My friends? They wouldn’t be fazed. They get me. They’ve always gotten me.

But family? Oh, they’d think me cra cra.

I don’t think about them that much. But it bubbles up. Especially when I choose to stay inside. When I skip the walk-abouts. When there’s no reason to dress because there’s no reason to be seen.

That’s when my ego chimes in, loud and clear:

You’re a loser. You’re not needed around town anymore. You’ve disappeared.

And some days? I believe it.

Some days I think: Is this what it looks like when a woman gives up?

But then I remember—this is temporary. The really, I mean really cold weather is keeping me in. And I’m choosing to be a hermit inside my beautiful cocoon. Not forever. Just for now.

Because reframing isn’t just semantics. It’s sovereignty.

And I’m done letting old voices—family voices, ego voices, ghost-of-married-life voices—tell me what my days are supposed to look like.

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So here’s what I’m learning to say instead:

I used to call it sleeping in—and feel guilty every single time.
I’d lie there after the alarm, already listing the things I should be doing. Already hearing the voice that said: Productive women are up early. Serious women don’t waste the day. So I’d drag myself up, half-awake, and start the motions—because that’s what I thought freedom looked like.

Now I call it healing from decades of alarm clocks I never actually needed.
I wake when my body wakes. Sometimes that’s 6 a.m. Sometimes it’s 8. And I’ve stopped apologizing for it—because the only person I was performing “early” for was a version of myself I don’t even recognize anymore.

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I used to call it wasting time—and panic every hour I wasn’t “producing.”
If I wasn’t painting, wasn’t writing, wasn’t making something, I’d feel the creep of shame. What did you even do today? I’d ask myself at night, scrolling back through hours that felt empty because they didn’t result in a product.

Now I call it doing what actually matters.
Reading. Staring out the window. Letting my mind wander until it lands on something true. That’s not wasting time—that’s how I find the work. The real work. The kind that doesn’t come from forcing.

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I used to call it skipping the gym—and carry it like a failure.
I’d see the women in workout clothes at the coffee shop and think: They’re doing it right. They’re taking care of themselves. You’re letting yourself go. As if moving my body only counted if it happened in spandex, on a schedule, with witnesses.

Now I call it listening to my body.
Some days that’s a walk. Some days it’s stretching on the floor while I wait for the coffee to brew. Some days it’s nothing at all—because my body is asking for rest, not performance. And I’ve finally learned the difference.

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I used to call it not looking put together—and avoid mirrors.
I’d catch my reflection in pajamas at noon and feel the sting of it. You look like someone who’s given up. I’d think of the women I used to see at the grocery store, hair done, lipstick on, pulled together at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. And I’d wonder: Why can’t you just do that?

Now I call it looking like myself.
Because the truth is, I was never that woman. I was performing her. And she was exhausting. The version of me in pajamas, hair wild, paint on my hands? That’s who I actually am. And she’s not a failure. She’s free.

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I used to call it antisocial—and feel the weight of it.
I’d decline invitations and then lie awake at night wondering if I was broken. Normal people want to go out. Normal people don’t need this much alone time. I’d force myself to say yes, then spend the whole event counting the minutes until I could leave.

Now I call it protecting my peace.
Because I’ve learned that my energy is finite. And I’d rather spend it on the people and work that light me up than scatter it across obligations that drain me. That’s not antisocial. That’s self-preservation.

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I used to call it zoning out on the couch—and feel ashamed of it.
Hours would pass. I’d watch something, or scroll, or just sit there staring at nothing. And afterward I’d berate myself: You could have painted. You could have written. You just threw away a whole afternoon.

Now I call it letting my nervous system reset.
Because I’ve spent decades running. Performing. Producing. And my body needs—deserves—to do nothing sometimes. Not as a reward for productivity. Just as a basic human right.

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I used to call it not getting much done—and measure my worth by my output.
If I didn’t have something to show for my day—a finished painting, a published essay, a crossed-off list—I felt invisible. Like I didn’t count. Like I hadn’t earned my place in the world.

Now I call it moving on soul time.
Because the rhythm I’m building now doesn’t run on deadlines or external validation. It runs on what’s true. What’s ready. What wants to be born. And some days that means I “get nothing done”—and that’s exactly the day I needed.

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This is what it means to rebuild a life.

To examine the scripts we inherited—and choose, on purpose, to write our own.

Not with guilt. Not with apology. But with deep, delicious relief.

So yes, I paint in my pajamas now.

And no, I’m not settling.

I’m rising—softly, sovereignly, joyfully—into the only rhythm that was ever really mine.

Even when the voice says I’m a loser for it.

Even when I wonder if I’ve disappeared.

Even when I’m not sure if this is freedom or just hiding.

I choose the cocoon.

Because I know—I know—that what’s growing in here is worth protecting.

And when it’s time to emerge, I will.

But not one second before I’m ready.

If this essay landed—if you felt seen in it—here’s what I want you to know:

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And if you’re still on the fence? Stay in your pajamas a little longer. Read a few more essays. You’ll know when it’s time.

But don’t wait too long.

The cocoon is warm. And there’s room for you here.