Lessons from a serial killer (sort of)
I've always been fiercely independent. Like, MacGyver-meets-Beyoncé-with-a-hot-glue-gun independent. I learned early on that if something needed to get done, it was probably up to me. Parents? Absent. Mentors? Rotating cast of questionable influence. Life coaches? Unless you count the inside of a Snapple cap, none.
Over the years, people have floated in and out of my life like poorly written guest stars in a long-running drama. And while I’ve met kind people, helpful people, and even slightly magical Trader Joe’s cashiers, I can’t say anyone ever had a truly significant positive impact on me.
Why? Because I’m allergic to imperfection. I was raised on a strict diet of internalized perfectionism and emotional bootstraps. So if someone dared to inspire me but also forgot to return a text or used Comic Sans unironically, they were out. No one, and I mean no one, ever lived up to the impossibly high standard I held for myself—and by extension, everyone else.
So, naturally, I became my own role model. Pathetic? Maybe. Efficient? Absolutely.
But then… enter Dexter.
Yes, that Dexter. The guy with a secret nighttime hobby that involves plastic wrap and murder—but also, a day job and a disturbingly well-balanced routine. Don’t worry, I’m not about to go vigilante. My version of going rogue is ignoring emails for an hour. But what caught my attention wasn’t his extracurricular activities—it was his attitude.
By day, Dexter is chill. Zen. Cool as a corpse (too soon?). One coworker in particular hates his guts—and not in a cute “rivalry makes the workplace spicy” way. This guy follows him, harasses him, practically breathes down his neck trying to expose something. Meanwhile, Dexter just… shrugs. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t even vent about it on Reddit. He just lets it roll off.
I was shook.
Because if someone so clearly unstable (and let’s not forget, deeply homicidal) can master the art of emotional detachment, then maybe—just maybe—I can stop having full mental breakdowns when someone corrects me on how to pronounce “acai.”
It hit me: I spend so much of my energy reacting. Fuming. Replaying conversations. Holding grudges like I’m getting paid. All because when someone critiques me, it feels like confirmation that I’m not perfect—and if I’m not perfect, then what am I even doing here?
But Dexter? He knows it’s not about him. That coworker isn’t obsessed because Dexter is flawed—he’s obsessed because he’s insecure. It’s classic bully behavior. And instead of getting riled up, Dexter conserves his energy for the things that really matter—like, you know, murder. (Again, not my thing. I’m more of a couch-and-snack kind of person.)
So while I’m not taking up Dexter’s entire lifestyle, I am borrowing a page from his playbook. I’m learning to let things go. To save my mental energy for things that actually deserve it. To stop trying to prove I’m perfect and instead be okay with being human. (Maybe not Dexter human, but… you get the idea.)
So here’s to calm. Here’s to detachment. Here’s to the weirdest, most unexpected role model I never asked for but probably needed. And if I ever get harassed by a coworker again, I’ll channel my inner Dexter.
Minus the knives