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I've been a full-time working mom for nearly 20 years. I've volunteered for school fundraisers, organized neighbourhood street parties, dropped off and picked up kids from lessons, practices, school and playdates.
I've planned birthdays, check-ups, vacations, road trips and dinner parties. I shopped, cooked and cleaned. At work, I started new projects, I put out fires, I made things happen. I always made things happen.
Then, I fell into bed only to get up in the morning and do it all again.
Being busy was a badge of honour. I didn't know it could to be different.
I was afraid if I stopped moving, even for moment, it would all crash down, like a plate spinner. I numbed with Netflix, chocolate and wine. Sometimes, I had a short fuse. I called myself "Shout Mom." I didn't like her very much. But I kept spinning, pushing and pretending that everything was going to be ok. I carried it. The Mother load.
In 2018, things shattered and I found myself trying to sort through shards of a life and a marriage that I didn't recognize. I walked in circles for hours around neighbourhood. I curled up in bed, tangled in my thoughts. I frantically Googled things, typed notes in my phone, scrawled on scraps of paper, desperate to make sense of how things got here and how I could fix it. I had to fix it. For the children. For me. But I didn't know where to start.
A friend once told me "When you are lost, just make one promise a day to yourself and keep it". I found a woman on Youtube and started doing her 30 Day Yoga practice. Sometimes it was just 20 minutes. I felt good. It was something just for me. On my mat. I listened to my breath. Felt my body. Stilled my mind.
I didn't have all the answers but I knew one thing for sure -- I had to start carving out a little time, even the smallest of slivers, for me.