My body came to a halt. Full. Stop.
My body screeched to a halt. Since when did hump day, otherwise known as Wednesday, morph to bump, bleed, and bruise day? I didn't get the memo. Between scouring drawers for Band-Aids, chewing Tums, and swallowing Advil (this is not a Walgreens advertisement), a question popped into my mind: Why do the littlest things hurt the most?
I felt like a human bumper car. Well, minus the cushy protective bumpers! Before I even sipped water, my chest burned as if I’d gulped rubbing alcohol. I’m well-acquainted with heartburn. But this felt frighteningly foreign, and my head also felt woozy. Of course, I did the worst thing and consulted with Dr. Google regarding the symptoms. Thankfully, the burning (and my anxiety) dissipated after a few hours.
Then the doorbell rang. We’d finally restored our grandmother’s couch after a decade. It’s old in the most perfectly imperfect way, which is why, despite the tears and stains, I’d resisted reupholstering it. So many memories of celebrations and conversations all fostered by a woman who was a mother to me.
The pups wagged their fluffy, eager tails as I opened the door. Then Izzy, our eldest and mini poodle, bolted without warning. One of the men who stood in the entryway pointed toward the palm trees, and his eyes widened. A raccoon clung to the taupe tree trunk, staring back at us with a mix of curiosity and obstinance. It wouldn’t budge.The other man scooped up my flustered Goldendoodle while the other men maneuvered the couch through the doorway. After they left, I sat on the sofa and wiped the sweat off my neck.
With the crisis averted, a headache replaced the heartburn. As the title of my upcoming novel reads, It Could Be Worse! The pups napped on the floor as I reached for peppermint essential oil to dull the throbbing. And I was about to unscrew the cap when I noticed blood dripping from my finger.
What the heck? I couldn’t figure out how this happened. The very thing I was about to dab on my temples to ease the pounding just pricked my skin. Turns out somebody must’ve dropped the bottle and put it back into the cabinet. I washed away shards of amber glass. Of course, the cut would be on the tip of my middle finger. Ah, the irony.
After my meeting, to which I arrived late, I stopped by a store for more bandages. By this time, I’d begun to sense a message. Slow down, Chica. I thought when I get home, maybe I’ll take a bath (haven’t done that in months) or finish the hilarious book I'm reading (Marilyn Simon Rothstein’s Crazy To Leave You.)
But on the way to my bathroom, I somehow sliced the cuticle on my big toe.
I’d become a hazard to myself. Clearly. I opted to crank up the shower and closed my eyes as steamy water washed over me. Then I remembered the spiky hairs I’d missed last time I shaved. Did I dare hold a razor?
I decided yes because this day wasn’t done; I refused to let it be ruined. With more caution and care than usual, I glided the blade onto my knees and finished minus a massacre. A win! I smiled as I realized that my Every Soul Has a Story podcast guest last month, C’Dangelo, talked about self-publishing and self-care.
Writing, reading, sitting by the lake, and carving silent moments is self-care for me. I realized I’d been neglecting all of the above. And my body demanded that I come to a full stop. All systems were awry. What made matters worse, I hadn't carved the space to process a multitude of emotions or given myself the freedom to do so. But now I must--I apparently no longer had a choice.
The bleeding stopped, the bruises healed, and now I am sifting through the layers I couldn't see or feel. And thanking my body for communicating what my psyche demanded—rest, realization, and rejuvenation. My lesson? Listen to the whispers before they become screams.
As always, I have questions and would love to hear from you:
How do you know when you’re out of balance?
Does your body alert you?
Do you respond?