I work hard. Sometimes too hard. But hard as I work, I almost never give myself credit. No stars on my sticker chart. No atta girls or pats on the back. I’m never entirely satisfied … self-satisfied.

I thought a lot about women yesterday. Me, sure, but me in terms of all the rest of us.

Are you like me? Is well done never quite good enough?

I’ve reached an age where I don’t feel the need to self-psychoanalyze why I am who I am. It doesn’t much matter anymore how I got to be the me I am.  I’m more forward thinking these days and want to know where I’m going next.

But back to the credit. Can’t we all give ourselves a little more credit for all the good we do in the world? Credit for all that gets done because of us? Let’s give ourselves a moment of self-satisfaction for the crying babies we soothe, the corporations we run, and the patients we care for. Let’s tally points in our plus column for the words we write, the dishes we wash, the bills we’ve paid, essays we’ve read, and the fires we literally and metaphorically extinguish.

Let’s thank the women who do what we cannot: the chefs, lawyers, sales clerks, teachers, and child care workers. The all of us. No matter what I do or you do, not one of us can do it all. (Despite our very best efforts.)

I’m so grateful to the kind, young woman at Ulta who steered me in a better cosmetic direction without ever once making me feel old or less than. So grateful. It’s hard to be an aging woman, and she didn’t make me feel like one. Thank you for seeing me and not my age, Ulta woman.

Let’s remember and reach out to the women who feel forgotten, looked over, or invisible. Let’s say hello to the elderly, smile at the mom hauling a dozen birthday balloons from the dollar store, and start a conversation with the woman who looks so sad or lonely on the subway.

We’re all in this together – some alone, others with partners by our sides. Some of us are raising children and wonder about their future just as others of us get ready to retire and wonder about ours. We worry. We dream. We love. We grieve. We think. We vote.

We’re thin and not. Young and not so young. We’re blond, brunette, and chemo-bald. We’re store-bought and homemade. We’re mothers and mayors. We’re sometimes forgetful, always busy, loving, intelligent, brave, and beautiful. We’re a country of women, a world of women, and a culture of women. To try to define us somehow limits us for we are not and will never be a type, a party, a race, or one-size-fits-all.

We will resist judgement, criticism, and definition. Believe me, we’re probably already busy judging, criticizing, and defining ourselves over and over, day after day. At least I am. And I’m probably feeling not quite good enough.

I cannot speak for all of us, and I’m not sure I need to tell you my story. But I’ll listen to yours. I see you. I recognize you. And I know you.

Because I’m a woman too.

My skin’s had a rough winter.

And it’s only February.

I was diagnosed with rosacea about a month ago. My face often feels like it’s burning. The inflammation and itch spreads from my ears, to my chin, just above my eyebrows, and all across my cheeks.

I’m a vision.

I’m also not convinced I have rosacea. Symptoms aren’t always consistent, no matter my diet, and it’s winter in New England so that means drying heat, drying cold, drying wind … drying skin.

I was prescribed a cream by my doctor and admittedly, it helps soothe the inflammation and burning. For a bit, anyway. But it also dries my face something fierce and results in flaky rough patches everywhere.

I thought maybe it was time to return the doctor’s cream to the medicine cabinet and turn to my pantry for a little relief.

I remember my toddler son’s struggles with eczema and the soothing nature of oatmeal, so I started there. After a little more research, I learned yogurt has soothing properties of its own. Yogurt moisturizes, helps reduce discoloration, and calms feisty skin. And don’t forget the honey – also a natural moisturizer.

I mixed about a third cup of oatmeal with some very hot water and let it set a bit. I added enough water so I achieved a slushy mixture with a little more water than oats. Instantly, the hot liquid took on the milky oatmeal tone, and the oats softened. Finally, I mixed in equal amounts of honey and plain Greek yogurt – about a tablespoon of each.

Let the smearing begin.

I mostly used the liquid and left behind the oats.  Immediately my red skin returned to it’s normal New England winter whiter shade of pale.*  There was a bit of stinging sensation at first, but what followed was pure bliss: No itch. Therefore, no scratch.

With my facial skin improved, I’ll be straining the remaining liquid into a soothing bath for the rest of me.

It is winter in New England which means a good, long soak is necessary for survival.

*Thanks to Procol Harum for the perfect description of my New England winter skin.