My life is constantly about being on the move.

I am a runner. I am a teacher. I am involved in several individual and collaborative research studies and grants. I do a ton  of service (probably too much) at the university, community and state levels. I consult. I supervise student teachers. I am a wife and a mother of a pre-teen, a toddler, and two adults who have residual trauma-based struggles. I prioritize maintaining friendships. And I’m actively involved in several ministries with my church.

So, my life is constantly about being on the move.

When, this semester, my family experienced multiple medical crises on top of my “normal” life, my pace became somewhat frenetic, and the routine that grounds me and stabilizes me seemed to be the easiest thing to put aside in order to address the more urgent and pressing needs at hand.

But when I lost that stability and grounding, I also lost a large part of myself.

I have been in “survival mode” before.  For a time in my late 20s, survival mode was my modus operandi.  I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t reflect. I just did. I went from task to task, executing them relatively well (never well enough for my standards, but better than most people might expect), trying to keep everybody happy.  I lost touch with what happiness or joy meant to me because I was so busy figuring out how my actions could best satisfy others.  I did well. People liked me. I accomplished a lot.

And, I felt incredibly alone.

This semester has been a testament to my growth.  While I had to slip into survival mode in multiple moments during the last few months, I have built enough of a community to remind me of my humanity.  And, I have a toddler who calls me into the present even when I don’t have the energy to be anywhere but zoned out in front of an electronic device.  It has been hard, but I have tried to be more honest, more human, and more accepting of my best (at any moment) being enough. I am still trying to learn that I can’t do it all, shouldn’t put the desires of others above my own, should make space for the grounding of routine and of reflection.

Today, for the first time in a really long time, I’ve had time to just sit and breathe and write and be.  I’m a little out of the habit. But, I am still recognizable to myself.  I feel a twinge of displaced sadness at all that has happened in the last 2 months, but I feel something which is a great relief.

It is practice to be human and to be vulnerable. It is brave.

And I am all of these things, even if I am out of practice sometimes.

I write so I can remind myself to come back to the moments.