One lesson I keep (re)learning

I finally listened to myself this weekend.
I put myself first.
I rested.

I took a sick day on Friday to try to shake the weeklong headache and heaviness that had been drowning me. We drove up to the mountain late in the afternoon. We drank wine. We visited friends. I slept. I napped. I hiked. I didn't cook. I didn't even wash my hair.

I desperately needed this break. I'd been resisting it, though, because when I get to the point where I need to disconnect so completely, I feel guilty. I passed the point of reasonable rest a few weeks ago, and I knew the only way to start feeling better was to totally remove myself from all of it. Not not just from work responsibilities, or household chores, or catching up on emails, or even my sacred morning reading and writing ritual (which, when I’m exhausted, also feels like a chore). But also from my kids. I needed to turn them off. And that feels selfish, or irresponsible, or neglectful. Or un-“motherly,” I guess.

I didn't get to come up to the mountain by myself, though. We're all here: me, my husband, the kids, my mom, the dog. Solo mountain weekends are my ultimate luxury, but they're a scarce commodity. Time alone is something I have a hard time asking for, or even taking when it's offered. Again, it feels selfish. Or like I'm putting someone else out by trying to give myself space to recharge. I hate imposing on others. I'll volunteer to sit in an incredibly tight spot (for example, in the middle backseat of my car, between two kids in booster seats, with a 40-lb dog clawing at my thighs to get her footing so she can see out the window), muscles twisted and clenched, just so someone else can be comfortable. I think I learned that from my mom. Self-sacrifice isn't genetic, but it's definitely hereditary.

Even though I wasn't alone this weekend, I was able to find enough time to partially recharge. My long morning hikes with Ruby are balm for my soul. I'd forgotten my earbuds yesterday, so instead of listening to a podcast while we walked, I just talked to her. It was bright and sunny, but windy and cold, and I held my arms out wide to catch the very lightly falling, itty bitty snowflakes that dusted over us as we strolled. I narrated the running monologue in my head to her out loud. She sniffed mole holes and zoomied along the path, looking back to check on me every couple of minutes. We stopped and looked at the creek together. I felt myself coming back to center.

The kids had far too much screen time these last few days. That's the only way I can carve out the smallest pockets of time to nap. I feel guilty for that, too, but not guilty enough not to do it anyway.

In disconnecting from as much of my normal life as I could this weekend, I reconnected a bit with my husband. I'm not sure what that says about our normal life, our everyday dynamic, that we need to physically be somewhere else in order to find each other again. But when we're up here in the mountains, we're always much more in tune with each other.

I still didn't tell him the depths and details of everything I've been feeling these last few weeks. I'm secretly hoping he reads this blog and finds out that way. I'm much better at writing hard things than I am at speaking them. But I also know him incredibly well. We've been together for almost 22 years. And I’m relatively sure that he won't read this unless I explicitly ask him to. There’s something to be said for predictability. (I love you, dear.)

I did manage to confess some of my heaviness and exhaustion, though, as I came back into our bedroom after my morning hike. I told him that these last few weeks have been really hard for me. That I'm struggling. And I let my armor down just long enough to tell him that this distance between us isn’t working. I need him.

He listened. He hugged me. He told me he needed me, too.

We stood there for a long time, not saying anything, just hugging. I have a really hard time being present in these kinds of quiet moments—I’m too caught up in my head—so I try to use my meditation skills to bring me back to my body. Feel my feet on the ground. Feel his skin on mine. Feel my breath. This is safe. This is warm. Appreciate this. Don't think about it too much. Just feel it.

I don't know why it takes completely burning out, or falling into a depressive state, for me to prioritize slowing down and feeling things. I know the signs, because I’ve been here before, and should be able to recognize it earlier.

No, I do recognize it earlier. I just don't listen to myself, or do anything about it. I’m too tired to do anything about being too tired.

At the end of one of Brené Brown’s podcasts, she asks a series of rapid fire questions to her guests. One of them is always "what's the one lesson you have to keep learning over and over again?"

This is it for me. This is the lesson.

I need to slow down. I need to listen to myself more. I need to speak up more, too.

There’s a song on Billy Joel’s 1977 album, The Stranger, called Vienna. Ever since I can remember, the lyrics have resonated with me in a deep, almost elemental way. I know them by heart. But it’s still hard for me to take them to heart.

Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me,
Why are you still so afraid?

Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize... Vienna waits for you?

Slow down you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight

Too bad, but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong
You know you can't always see when you're right (you're right)

You got your passion, you got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize... Vienna waits for you?

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright, you can afford to lose a day or two (oooh)
When will you realize... Vienna waits for you?

I'm smart, but still afraid.
I'm so ahead of myself that I forget what I need.
I don't know exactly what my Vienna is, but I guess it can wait?

I may be wrong about a lot of things, but I need to keep reminding myself that I’m right about at least one thing:
that I deserve more rest/space/love/grace/compassion than I've been allowing myself.

Step 1—Acknowledgement.

Step 2—Doing something about it.