The Performance of Having It Together

On the exhausting illusion of control, the aestheticization of stability, and learning to live outside the grid of curated perfection.

I would stay in my room for days, for days at times, just trying to get it together, to know what my next phase was going to be.

- Whitney Houston

Morning Sun, 1952 by Edward Hopper

I’ve never quite known what people mean when they say, “You seem like you really have it together.” It sounds like a compliment, but sometimes I wonder if it’s just another expectation I’ve accidentally fulfilled… or at least looked like I have. In truth, I often feel like I’m just a few steps ahead of the unravelling. Still functional, still composed, but only because I’ve learned how to fold my turmoil into clean lines. It’s just a habit. An instinct now.

In our current world, composure has become an aesthetic. Just another thing to “curate.” There’s a certain kind of person we’re all expected to become: one who drinks water before coffee, reads 5 books a month, organizes their inbox, takes mental health walks, and responds to texts within the hour. A person who is high-functioning, and glowing but never in a way that feels try-hard. Effortless is the goal. Not just stability, but beautiful stability.

We all know the look. Neutral interiors. Perfect lighting. The small vase with 3 flowers placed just so on the desk beside the linen-bound planner. We know the caption, too: something about balance or growth or peace. A polished digital life, even when the internal life is fraying at the edges. There’s something admirable in that, and also exhausting. Because eventually, you forget where the performance ends and the real you begins.

I’ve thought a lot about what it means to “have it together.” I don’t think it means what we’ve been taught to believe. It’s not about never breaking down, or achieving inbox zero, or mastering the Pomodoro technique. I think it has more to do with becoming someone who knows what they need and allows themselves to have it. Someone who isn’t ashamed of changing course or slowing down. Someone who can say, “I’m not fine right now,” and mean it without spiraling into shame.

But we live in a culture that rewards the illusion of control. Especially online, where everything is “performance.” We are all audience members to each other’s curated functionality. The productivity hacks, the morning routines, the reading lists. The calming aesthetics of digital bullet journaling and wholesome self-care. It's not necessarily bad as some of it is comforting, inspiring even. But it can also become a script you didn’t mean to follow, a role you didn’t mean to audition for.

I used to think I wasn’t doing enough if I didn’t look “on top of it.” I felt behind if I didn’t have routines that made sense to others. But lately, I’ve been reconsidering the metrics. What if having it together isn’t about appearing composed, but being gentle with yourself? What if the highest form of being “put together” is just waking up and saying, “Okay, here’s what I can carry today,” and letting that be enough?

Maybe it's the person who knows how to rest before burnout. Maybe it’s the person who doesn’t pretend. Who lets the mess be visible… or at least, doesn’t hide it so fiercely. Who doesn’t use aesthetics to mask the ache. I want to be more like that.

I want to believe that the person who has it together is not the one with color-coded folders and a 5-year plan, but the one who can sit with themselves honestly, without needing to optimize every inch of their day to prove their worth.

We’re all carrying things others can’t see. Some of us carry the fear of failing, some carry the quiet ache of being misunderstood, some carry the pressure of having to “look okay” because they’re the “strong one.” Some of us carry it all. But we make it look smooth, like we’ve got it handled. And maybe we do, in our own way. Maybe that’s enough.

The problem is not in wanting structure or calm. The problem is in building our identity around whether others can see it. Around whether we perform the role well enough to avoid judgment. Around whether we can maintain the image while secretly feeling like we’re falling apart inside.

This is not a call to let go of discipline or abandon care. I still think rituals matter. I still color-code sometimes. I still tidy my desk when my brain is a mess. But I want it to come from a place of self-support, not self-surveillance. I want the point to be peace, not performance.

So no. I don’t have it all together. I have some things sort of figured out, and many things half-understood. I am still learning how to rest without guilt, how to say no without explanation, how to not collapse when I drop the ball. And yet, I’m still here. Still trying. Still becoming someone who is not afraid to be seen in the becoming.

If you feel like you’re faking it, you’re not alone. Most of us are just improvising with what we’ve got. And if you feel like everyone else has a life that looks more put-together than yours, remember:

performance is easier than truth. And truth is quieter than you think.

You don’t need to prove you’re okay. You just need to be real.

And sometimes, that’s the most composed thing you can be.

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