Rediscovering Self Care: A Cautionary Tale

I finally got on the mat today – showed up for a noon hot yoga class at my favorite studio. It was the first time in months. (The first time since June 18, to be precise. I checked.)

Life has been busy.

On June 15 of this year, after a few weeks of discussion (accompanied by lot of wine, as these were not easy conversations), we made the decision to put our house on the market and move east. From that moment on, it was balls-to-the-wall home remodeling and home repair mode.

There was SO MUCH that needed to be done. Bradley is a born perfectionist, and I’m as headstrong and driven as the day is long, so needless to say, there was to be no half-assing on our go-to-market strategy.

There were walls that needed painted, gardens that needed weeding and mulching, grass that needed fertilizing, flooring that needed replaced, a forlorn and massive deck that needed repaired, and thousands of square feet of cedar siding that needed to be re-stained on the property’s various structures. It was a veritable shit-ton of work, and we were doing 90% of it ourselves.

We had a plan, and we were faithful to it. For months on end, ALL WE DID was work on the house. (We fed the kids a few times – just kidding! they’re fine – and I kept up with my full-time job as well. Bradley quit his to dedicate himself full-time to the effort.)

We did it. We broke our backs getting everything done, and we listed right after the Labor Day holiday.

And we waited. Our lives were on hold, just waiting. Waiting for the right buyer to show up and put in the perfect offer.

Guess what? We’re still waiting.

In the meantime, the vast majority of our possessions are packed up in the garage, and we are living like we are in someone else’s AirBnB, with our clothes in suitcases, trying not to make too many messes, because someone could show up AT ANY MINUTE to see the house our beautiful house, and trip over themselves dying to buy it.

It was fucking exhausting. I lost more cool more times than I wish to admit. One day, as we were getting the house tidied so we could leave for the day (and the place would be immaculate, if a realtor decided to bring their clients who were looking for the perfect homestead), the dog trotted through the front door. Seconds later, I heard Emory Scout screaming, “He’s got poop!! He’s got poop!”

Our dog had tracked wild turkey shit ALL OVER the house. All over the freshly washed floors, all over the brand new carpeting.

I lost it. I’ve never yelled at a dog like I yelled at this poor dog. It was awful and I felt horrible and I apologized to everyone (especially the dog), but deep down I knew: I can’t live like this.

Always on edge, always stressed out, just waiting for the next phase of my life to begin. In a holding pattern. Or purgatory.

So the other day I decided that, for however long it take the house to sell, however long we stay here, I can’t keep waiting to do the things I need to do. Like yoga. And other self care, but mostly yoga. It keeps me sane(ish).

So I showed up to a yoga class today. Hot yoga, for those who’ve never done it, can be pretty rough. It’s like a million degrees (105 F to be precise), and steamy as hell. The workouts are challenging. I love it.

Last October I started going regularly and I felt amazing. I glowed with joy and sparkled with energy (or so I felt).

Four months of inactivity, stress, unhealthy eating and more bottles of wine than I’ll EVER own up to – I felt like garbage. My clothes weren’t fitting right, I wasn’t sleeping well, and I’ve been generally a cranky beeyotch. (Sorry, family.)

I survived the class today, but it wasn’t pretty. My joints ached and creaked. My muscles felt tight and fatigued. I wanted to throw up, and pass out, in that order. I took breaks and took child’s pose so that those two things would not happen. It was not fun.

But I did it, and only embarrassed myself a little bit. I was sad and angry at myself for not being better to my body. To allow something stupid like selling a house (it’s not stupid I know – but it’s not like, really that important either), wreck my body this way.

The moral of this story, I suppose, is to be kind to myself. I put self care waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down there on the priority list (like, in 17,000,000th place) and now I’m paying for it.

I’ll go back to hot yoga tomorrow. And the next day. And slowly it will get better, and slowly I will start glowing and sparkling again (honestly, I was grinning ear to ear the second the class was over, and my skin felt fantastic after just one class).

But I hope I remember how important it is to be gentle with myself, not to starve myself of the things that make me happy and whole. And that’s all I’ve got for today. 🙂

Peace!

Kelly

Note what’s written on the mirror in the bathroom at my yoga studio. They’re cool like that.