Last week I had a meltdown under the pressures of caregiving, single-parenting, co-parenting, moving, traveling, and entrepreneurship. (The privilege of my list of trials makes the shame of temporarily loosing my shit feel even heavier.)
Part of me knew this emotional tantrum was possible, even likely. Since August, we’ve moved three times and are on the brink of move number four. I’m continually adjusting to living away from the loves of my life, bouncing back and forth between states while trying to run a fledgling business. My heart occupies extremes — the overwhelming ecstasy of reuniting with my loves and the gnawing rending of separation — often simultaneously. All of the movement, change, and upheaval left me feeling un-grounded and unfocused. Then both my daughter and my partner fell ill one right after the other and although I didn’t realize it, trying to help them get better cashed out the remaining reserves I had. Like a car that runs out of gas, I suddenly found myself sputtering, threadbare, and vulnerable, sobbing in a puddle of confused tears. In hindsight I knew I was running too close to empty, but I thought I could squeak through this tumultuous time and refocus when things calmed down. I was wrong.
A meltdown is a humbling reminder that without a solid frame of self-care, it’s only a matter of time before the wheels of life fall out of alignment.