I Stopped Waiting for Things to Get Easier

There have been many times in our family where life felt so hard and stayed feeling so hard for much longer than I expected it to.

I would spend weeks thinking that once we got through a particular thing, once everyone settled, once I caught up on work or the house, then I’d be able to put things in place and take better care of myself.

I kept trying to get back to a version of life that felt easier, or at least more manageable, and in the meantime I’d be living in a kind of waiting room. I was sure everything would be temporary, messy, and I’d be getting through each day with the idea that surely I wouldn’t need to keep doing it the same way for much longer.

But then, I decided to change things to bring more relief to myself and ease the pressure some more, if only by a smidge. 

I now ask myself during those harder seasons:

If this was to be our new normal from here on, what would I set in place to offer myself realistic support?

It changes things for me.

“How do I make this stop?” usually leaves me feeling even more trapped, because most of the time I can’t make it stop. I can’t hurry another person’s nervous system, create capacity where there isn’t any, or force a hard season to move along faster because I’m over it.

When I ask myself how I could make this version of life more livable, there is usually something I can do. It may be unimpressive and it may not look anything like the kind of self care people sell us, but it gives me somewhere to begin.

The answers are usually ordinary

I move a piece of furniture because it's become one more thing to navigate around. I put the laundry basket at the end of my bed because that’s where the clothes are landing anyway. I stock up on the safe foods everyone's eating this week, even if none of it makes a proper meal. I use wet wipes when a shower isn’t possible and I stop giving myself a hard time about how much screen time the kids are having.

Sometimes I write a list of what I've actually done instead of another list of everything I need to do. I need to see that I fed people, answered an email, found the missing charger, sat with someone who was falling apart, let the dog out and remembered to drink something. Otherwise I can get to the end of the day convinced I’ve done nothing because the washing's still there and the kitchen looks like twelve people have been through it.

These small adjustments are more impactful than another promise to myself that tomorrow I’ll get up earlier, be more organised, have a routine, stay on top of things and somehow become a person with a completely different body and brain..and life.

I’ve tried being harder on myself. It doesn’t make me more capable. It just means I’m struggling and being bullied at the same time, by me.

Surviving isn’t only enough, it’s everything.

I ask for the actual thing

Asking for help has never come easily to me, and I’ve realised that when I do ask, I can be so vague that the other person doesn’t really know what to do.

“Can you help me?” is a very big question.

“Can you fold that load of washing?” has edges.

“Is anyone free?” can mean anything, whereas “Can you take the kids to the park for an hour?” gives someone a way to step in.

Sometimes the thing I need is a person to text chat with. I don’t need them to fix anything or offer me a plan. I need to be able to say, “This is a lot today,” and have another human say, “Yep, I’m here.” I'll often record a whatsapp message and send it to a friend with no response necessary, but the knowing that someone, somewhere knows I'm struggling and I'm okay.

Specific help is useful help. If I’m already using all of my courage to ask, I want to ask for the thing that will make a difference.

When the whole family is stuck

There are days when the atmosphere in our home feels so heavy and stuck that I need to interrupt it somehow. I’ll jump up and down, make ridiculous noises, sing loudly, dance badly, talk to myself (and definitely answer back 😅).

I’ve been known to announce what I’m doing as though I’m in a documentary..narrating my life.

“Here we see the mother approaching the laundry pile she has carefully avoided for four days.”

Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I put my headphones on and listen to something uplifting while I wash dishes or clothes and attend to all the mundane bits and pieces that still need doing when nobody in the house has much left. Being a single parent and full time carer means it's just me all of the time, so I need to go gently, gently.

I’m not trying to force everyone into a good mood. I’m moving some of the energy. I’m giving my body somewhere to put what it’s carrying and reminding myself that I’m still here, my heart is beating and this moment can shift a little even if the bigger situation doesn’t.

I keep track of what works

In any given week, even a shocking one, there are tiny things that are still working.

My morning espresso shot - holy hell, I'd never survive without that magical elixir. A particular show that can make me laugh. Walking to the same tree. A blanket that feels right. One person online whose voice settles something in me. Music while I do the dishes. Sitting in the car for ten minutes before I go back inside. An audiobook that distracts my PDA brain away from knowing I'm engaged in a task I'd typically avoid.

I write these things down, and nope, it isn’t a gratitude practice. It’s infrastructure.

When I’m deep in it, I genuinely forget what helps. My world narrows to the problem in front of me and I can become convinced there's nothing available to me at all. A list made by a version of me with slightly more capacity can remind me that the headphones are in the drawer, the good tea is in the cupboard and there's a podcast I can put on without having to decide what I want to hear.

Knowing what works is half of knowing how to keep going.

I don’t always get to choose whether chaos is in our home. I do get to keep learning where a small pocket of calm might fit amongst it. It could be a corner, a ritual, a time of day or five minutes under a blanket with the door closed. A five minute meditation on the loo. I just take it in the form it comes. 

When there is no one there

People often talk about reaching out as though everyone has somebody available to them outside the immediate family.

We don’t all have family who understand. I don't. My friends are from all over the world, but none of them live locally.

We don’t all have a friend to text, an agency, a support worker, or someone who will bring us a coffee. Sometimes the care our children require makes it hard or even impossible to leave the house, and having someone come into the house can be just as difficult. There have been long periods in my life where community in the usual sense was not available to me.

There are still days like that.

I’ve had whole seasons where the only regular voice in my day was someone speaking through my earphones. It counted. It was company.

A podcast can feel like a friend in my ear. A YouTuber whose voice I know can steady me. The internet can hold a comment section where people get it, or one account that says the things nobody around me knows how to say.

The kettle counts. The dog counts. The blanket kept in the same place so I know where to find it counts.

Of course these things don’t remove aloneness. I know the difference between a podcast and a person who can come over and fold the washing, or just be with me. I also know that care built from what's alctually here in the now has carried me through days when there was nobody coming.

It's very real, even when it doesn’t look like the community we wish we had.

Living in this

I can still hope for things to ease, and I can still work towards change where I can and I still have days where I desperately wish things could be different. 

I’m also learning to stop making myself wait for care.

If this is the shape of life today, I can put the basket where I need it and organise the food people will eat. I can ask someone to do one exact thing. I can put the music on, sit with the dog, make the coffee and lower the bar without having to explain why it was too high.

Care isn’t waiting for things to ease.

It’s setting up to live inside what is.

Kristy Forbes | inTune Pathways