Never is a Funny Word
My Nervous System Must Hate Me
It’s been five months since I published an essay. Five months since I have had the space for words to come, or even the desire to find the words. The writing was on the wall. My last article was about how I had been struggling to find the words. How I was giving myself permission to pause. And pause I did. Well, no, not really pause as much as completely fall back into an old pattern or two.
Was it a test? I do believe the universe tests us sometimes, and I gotta be honest, this particular test comes up more often than I would like to admit. In the spirit of full transparency, I have failed the test every time. Although I think the time between the so-called failure and its realization gets shorter each time. So progress, maybe?
Two days after my last essay was published, I got a call from someone I had been doing some work with. A very high-producing real estate agent who was struggling with his admin and felt he needed to make a change. I can’t say exactly what happened next, because I think I planned to help him out for a little bit while he found someone, and then just went ahead, in my very special way, and offered myself up on a platter for a full-time role I had no right to offer. I think my soul knew this was not a smart choice, so the conscious part of me only committed to a year.
I left real estate for the most part four years ago. I had my hands in a few places here and there, but I promised myself I would never go fully back in. The first piece of the pattern appears. The thought of helping someone else who I could see really needed my help trumped a promise I made to myself.
The funny thing is that I take promises very seriously. I have “promises” tattooed on my body. At least, I think that’s what it says. Getting tattoos in another language was a 90s fad I, like many, fell into. The point is, I don’t break promises to the people I love, ever. But that’s not really true, is it? This was only one of hundreds of promises I have had no problem breaking, to myself.
The pattern doesn’t end there, though. Maybe what really happened is that I knew I was flailing as a writer, as a death doula, as all the things, and real estate operations is something I knew I couldn’t fail at. And you know, a girl has to pay the mortgage and feed all the pets. Plus, the dopamine hit of someone needing and appreciating me was appealing too.
I also get to be honest with myself, and with you. Part of me just knew I was so good at what I do in real estate operations that no one else could help this guy. Crazy how we can discount our abilities in one breath, and be completely egotistical about them in others. Ah, the stories we tell ourselves.
So maybe, let’s be really clear what this was about. It was an easy out for me. I told myself I could handle it all. I would still write, I would still be creative. I would still help people outside of real estate. I would focus on my own mental and physical health. But the truth is, it was an escape of sorts. I would have a steady, reliable income doing what I already know I am good at, with no opportunity for failure. It was safe. Ah, safety is a funny concept. For me, “safe” is a trigger word of sorts. True safety is something my nervous system has never experienced. Yet, that is probably a topic for another day. Focus, Heather.
The point is, once again, I failed the test. I stepped into rescue mode at my own expense because it was a huge dopamine hit and a steady source of income. Bonus, I wouldn’t have to focus on getting better at what I said I loved doing or put myself out there to market myself. No vulnerability for me for a whole year!
Within a month, I knew I had made a mistake. I was at my desk by 6:30 every morning, despite claiming my hours were 9:00 to 4:00. You know, so I would have time to write and focus on the other things I had been doing. It wasn’t long before my anxiety started flaring again. And it wasn’t a slow progression either.
It has become very clear to me that I am no longer, and will never again be, the driven, focused, on top of it, hard worker I used to be. Never mind that this guy is half my age with a brain that moves 50 times faster than mine. He has a drive and passion for real estate that I never had. Yet, in my previous life, my passion for helping people was able to override what was lacking. Yeah, that doesn’t work anymore.
By month three, my health anxiety, which had really been under control for the most part for several months, welcomed itself back with regular nightly visits. Not long after, the “stress-related IBS” joined the party, and I was back to where I had been before I spent literal years and thousands of dollars working through all of that with therapy, hormones, and a lot of self-reflection and work.
Then came the shame for undoing all that work. For committing to something I wasn’t capable of following through on. I kept reminding myself that I only committed to a year. Yet, every day, I woke up, fed the fur-kids, made my coffee, and got to work like a good employee. Every evening, I would be back in survival mode. Telling myself I am not dying. My heart isn’t going to explode. Checking my vital stats. Reminding myself over and over that I’m not even afraid to die, so even if I did have a heart attack and die, it wouldn’t really matter.
Depressed and anxious at the same time. Unable to do literally anything other than sit at my desk and work. And I wasn’t doing that so well either. Hmm, maybe I could fail at this real estate thing. Great, I suck at my job now, too.
Finally, I caught myself once again thinking how lovely it would be to jump off a cliff. Thank the light for self-awareness. My plan had been to endure the anxiety and barely functioning life until January of next year, because I made a commitment. Yet, in that moment of seeing my reflection in the ocean below the cliff, I was reminded that I made a commitment to myself first. I will never go back into real estate full-time. I will never work for anyone again. I will never sacrifice my mental health for anything ever again.
It took a couple of weeks to work myself up to it. To break my word. To have a difficult conversation with someone I care about. I talked myself out of it several times, telling myself I could push through the pain and make it through my year. Yet, the decision had been made for me; I could not and would not continue this way.
How do I approach someone that I care about deeply, who I had made a commitment, a promise to, and break the news? Well, I’m me, I made a plan, of course. Yet, the pressure had been building so much that I just blurted it out at a Monday morning huddle. As soon as I said it, my body felt like an over-inflated balloon that someone finally let some air out of. I could breathe.
Breath truly is life. The pause between breaths is where everything becomes clear. It is in those moments that I am reminded of the things I preach. Boundaries, self-care, releasing shame, perfection being a lie. All of the things I forget. And in the forgetting, I feel like a complete hypocrite. Yet, my truth is that the nervous system can override everything we “know” just to survive. And that’s really what I was trying to do… survive.
I can, of course, see it all so clearly now.
Again.
Maybe, just maybe, the actual test, or lesson, or whatever it is, is in the remembering.
Remembering what it feels like to write for no one but myself.
How quiet my mind can get when I’m reading or creating.
How much calmer I am in the beauty of the mess than in the flutter of perfectionism.
Perhaps, most importantly, the promises to ourselves have to be as important as the promises we make to others.
Now, I get to transition into yet another new phase of my life. The phases of midlife as a woman seem unnecessarily plentiful. I am reading again. More importantly, I am writing again, and that brings me back to you, my friends. Though I’m back in a different way this time.
I’m taking my eye off the perceived correct end result. I’m taking the pressure off to write x number of essays, to have x number of readers, and to have perfectly edited and sometimes AI-assisted writing. That was likely my biggest mistake in my writing, and it will not be a part of my practice moving forward. I’m slowing down a lot. In every way possible.
Because the truth of the matter is, all I really want is to connect. To truly connect with kind humans. Not to pump out content. Introverted, antisocial little me, looking for connection.
Go figure.
Love today,
🌸 Heather