It took me seven years to give myself permission to crash.
Seven years of pushing through. Seven years of performing okayness for whatever room I was in, whatever obligation was next, whatever version of normal I was trying to hold together. Seven years of treating rest as something I had to earn rather than something my body was simply owed after everything it had been through.
I finally let it happen last month. And I’m still a little surprised it took that long.
We had just come back from what I can only describe as a beautiful, full, completely reasonable trip that my body treated like a triathlon.
It started in Palm Springs for my sister-in-law’s wedding. We flew out, checked in, hit the ground running the way you do when you have an energetic five year old in tow. We took Trip to the zoo; the kind of day that looks easy in photos.
This is one of those zoos where feeding the giraffes is one of the main attractions. But to get to the giraffes you have to navigate through the majority of all the other animal exhibits.
There’s a cafe right after the giraffes called The Crash Cafe. I don’t know if that name is intentional commentary or just coincidence, but it felt pointed. Every kid in the place was melting — hungry, overtired, overstimulated. Just done. Every parent looked like they were one question away from joining them. Except Trip, who was sitting there perfectly content, working through his ice cream like he had nowhere to be. I watched him and thought, quietly and without telling anyone, I might not make it through this afternoon. I smiled for the pictures.
A few days later, the wedding. This wedding was genuinely wonderful. Reconnecting with those we haven’t seen in years. Taking in all the meticulous planning that had gone into it. It was beautiful. It was worth every minute.
It was also a full day on my feet in the heat, being present for everyone, holding it together all the way through the after party and more.
Then, instead of going home, my mom and Trip and I kept driving. Patrick flew back to take care of Rye. Just the three of us in the car, two days to Utah to visit my brother, his family, my cousins and their kids. This meant over-enthusiastic children under one roof running circles around each other. It was genuinely one of those scenes you want to freeze and keep. All of them together, completely delighted by each other’s existence, the particular chaos of cousins who don’t get to see each other enough finally in the same place. Beautiful and loud and exactly as draining as it sounds.
By the time we finally landed back home I was running on whatever comes after empty.
The day after we got back, a Friday, I made it to the gym for my scheduled session with my trainer. I felt like I couldn’t move. I moved anyway. Because that’s what you do. That’s what I had always done.
Then my mom sent me a post from the Brain Aneurysm Foundation — about the invisible labor of living with a hidden disability. About how “but you look so good” can be both a compliment and a kind of dismissal. I read it and felt something loosen.
Saturday morning I woke up and tried to get ready for Pilates. I couldn’t see straight. I stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. Patrick and Trip were still asleep, doing the slow weekend morning that I usually push through to get to the 8am class. I made tea. I put toast in the toaster even though I couldn’t see my own hand doing it. I pushed it down and walked away. I took my tea back to bed and texted my instructor.
I slept until 2pm. Rye stayed with me the whole time, that particular dog loyalty that doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t require you to explain yourself.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty.
I have spent seven years making sure my illness was as convenient as possible for everyone around me. Making sure the crash happened off camera, in private, after the obligations were met. Making sure nobody had to adjust for me if I could possibly help it.
This time I just let it come. I stayed in bed. The boys had a whole day without me. They always figure it out … Patrick had created a rhythm of these days in prior years when I couldn’t get out from under my heating pad. They always find the fun.
The world didn’t stop.
That felt like something. That felt, actually, like progress.