It has been a doozy of a year(s).

And I don't know about you, but I feel like I am reeeeeally starting to approach the limit of things I can take. Like, I'm strong...and I am very, very tired.

When my bandwidth is really tapped, my capacity to make decisions deteriorates. So when I start to sense the depletion setting in, I kind of pre-determine certain choices, to spare myself the mental pressure of choosing later.

For example, (almost) every time that I sat down to watch Netflix in the past month, I put on Modern Family.

Why? Because until recently, I hadn't watched it all the way through, there are a hundred seasons of it (so I knew it would last a while) and, it usually makes me chuckle. (This is also why I've watched The Office eleventeen times.)

Without that pre-determined choice, I just can't even. I will scroll the options on Netflix for endless hours without committing, and end up feeling frustrated and overwhelmed instead of relaxing and enjoying it...which defeats the purpose.

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When I was in school to become a massage therapist, I discovered there was a real stigma to combat around the legitimacy of the profession.

We were constantly trying to defend the power of therapeutic touch, and to position ourselves as healthcare workers instead of spa employees. That meant creating distance from anything that wasn't medically-oriented to focus solely on research and evidence-based practice.

#DOUBLEBLINDORBUST

It wasn't to say that there isn't a place for relaxation massage ("fluff and buff" as we liked to call it) but we, the massage therapy students, low-key turned down our noses at anyone who didn't do a complete orthopaedic assessment and develop a treatment plan spanning 4-6 weeks.

It was as if the existence of relaxation as the goal, or the use of "woo" words like energy undermined our efforts to be taken seriously.

We acted as if unmanaged stress wasn't a core problem; it was just another symptom.

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When I was a kid, I used to LOVE theme parks.

Roller coasters, spinners, straight drops that make your stomach jump to your throat — I loved them all. But if I had to pick a favourite, it would have been the dropping rides.

The Tower of Terror at Disney, the Drop Zone at Canada's Wonderland...there was something about the way that my insides would initially seize when the ride started to fall, and then somehow settle into the sensation when I knew I wasn't actually flying out of my seat, that I loved.

What I loved the most was getting off the ride, and feeling almost normal with just a lingering buzz of adrenaline...because then I wanted to do it all over again.

I wanted to go again because I knew that it would stop. I knew that it was short, it was contained, I could get off the ride, and elect to get back on it again.

That's not how I feel about 2020. (Or really, how it's felt since about 2016.)

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Fun fact about me: I used to work at a chicken farm.

I spent my weekends standing in front of a conveyor belt, picking and sorting eggs. I would also walk up and down the barn amidst 10,000 birds scanning the poo-filled ground for errant eggs that didn't make it into the conveyor-belted nests.

The work was repetitive and tedious, and this was long before mp3 players — let alone smartphones and podcasts — so the entertainment options were few.

(Read: There was one radio, and it got two stations.)

(Sometimes.)

Most of the time the only thing you could get reception for was a country station, and even though I didn't start that job as a country music lover, I definitely left as one because those country songs sure know how to hit you in the feels.

Along the way, I came across a song called Going through Hell by Rodney Atkins. I remember hearing it for the first time as I was driving down the highway, and it hit me haaaaard. I don't remember why, but I was hooked by the lyrics:

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That question changed my life.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a pretty fixed and limited idea of how my life should play out or what success would look like: engaged right after school (so everyone knew I was desirable and worth locking down) to someone from my church community (so they know I wasn't going to hell) and buying a house (so they'd know we were financially secure and making smart investments for our future).

We did "smart" things like go to the bank and have meetings and make spreadsheets and crunch numbers, and I found myself right on track to success with 3 princess cut rock kind of ring on my left hand, and a solid chunk of debt shouldered between myself and my ex.

There were a lot of warning signs for that relationship, and (luckily) we realized our incompatibility before officially tying the knot. But that didn't mean we were without a mess of logistics to untangle — mostly financial ones.

I won't lie — my coping strategy in the past was heavily reliant on avoidance.

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There's this myth that's circulating when it comes to time off, and it has to do with the idea that we need to earn it.

Like the list of things to-do — whether written by us or for us — is The Thing that we answer to when we want to take a break.

I call bullshit.

Because The List will never actually be done. The demands on your time, energy, and attention will not stop on their own. The belief that space for your Self will emerge when you've done enough is what has you running tirelessly very tiredly towards burnout.

Hustling to prove your work and earn your rest needs to stop.
And.
You are the one who has to say enough.

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When somebody asks,

"HOW ARE YOU?"

How do you answer?

I mean, it's a simple enough question, isn't it? At least, it's one that we get asked regularly.

But how often are you asked that question and you provide an honest answer?

Maybe you respond with a reflexive "I'm fine!" or "Things are good!" or "Keeping busy!"

(These days I say, "Rolling with the punches!" a lot because it feels the most accurate.)

If the inquiry persists, maybe you'll share some more details:

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When I started to put pen to paper and give voice to my Self-care and boundary-setting journey, I came up with the framework I call "The 4 R's".

(I know. Such a creative name.)

The purpose of the framework was to identify different phases of our Self-care journey, so that can we develop a better arsenal of tools to actually make the Self-care theory an active (and effective) practice. Because when you know where you're at, you can create a practice that tends to your needs.

Honestly, the way that I've come to understand Self-care has changed dramatically over the years...and even now it continues to shift and change.

Initially I called out the four R's/phases like this:

RETREAT → RECOVERY → RESERVES → REVOLUTION

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Ten years ago, I was very actively planning a June wedding.

I used to spend a lot of time looking forward (and counting down) to June 26, 2010 because at the ripe old age of 22, I was finally going to be married.

(My Opa used to ask why it was taking me so long to find a husband...I like to think he was joking.)

I wasn't necessarily the girl who had a wedding book made up or spent her childhood yearning to be a bride/wife, but I always assumed that I would meet the "right" guy, settle down and get married, start a family, all that jazz that had been modelled to me as a kid.

At that stage of the game, I had a pretty fixed (and limited) idea of how my life should play out and what "success" would look like:

I wanted to be engaged right after school (so everyone knew I was desirable and worth locking down) to someone from my church community (so everyone would know I wasn't tarnished goods and going to hell) and buying a house (so they'd know we were financially secure and making smart investments for our future. Also because renovating your own house looked like a very fun project).

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I am a big advocate for falling apart.

In fact, I think that fighting to keep it all together is highly overrated.

About ten years ago, I was very into posting quotes as Facebook statuses.

And because the internet never forgets, here's proof:

(You’ll have to click “Read more” to see the picture.)

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I just heard my eldest yawn audibly…the kind of yawn that comes with a good stretch. That’s a pretty solid cue that he’s about to emerge from his room, and I feel like I am no longer breaking some sort of magical spell by saying what I'm about to say — because at the time of writing this, it is 7:55am on a Friday morning.

I am the only human awake and moving in my household, and it's been that way since 6:30am.

I even have coffee.

(Every parent on the planet is like FOOL YOU JINXED IT but it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)

I won't lie — I got up so that I could get a head start on writing, but when I realized no one else was awake I didn't want to start anything meaningful; that's usually when spidey senses rouse the kidlets from slumber.

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