THAT TIME I BROKE MYSELF (book chapter preview)

Of course I wish I could write my book, The Art of Attunement, from a place where I live in attunement with my inner wisdom 100% of the time. Spoiler alert: that is very much not the case. Here’s a chapter about one of my biggest recurring struggles.

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The Cracked Bolder

For years, the boulder stands strong, unshaken by storm or wind. But water, gentle, persistent, finds its way in. In time, a crack forms. Not to break it, but to open it. One day, a bellflower grows from the split.

2022. The year I learn I am not invincible.

The smell of ragout drifts from the kitchen. Classical Christmas songs play in the background. A tastefully decorated tree stands in the corner. I hardly register any of it. Chills run down my spine. Every cough burns. My eyes are runny. Keeping my body upright in the chair takes a huge effort. I should be in bed, but I sit in my in-law’s living room in a festive dress, trying hard to enjoy the food that I barely taste, and match the excitement of my children whose voices my ears cannot handle. My mother-in-law sends me to her bed, where I fall into a deep dreamless sleep.

A week later, we drive back home. My husband handles the ten hours while I mostly sleep. The next day at 17:00 I need to pick up my youngest from daycare. There is no way I can walk the 1.5 km, and I surely can’t bike. I hate driving but I get in the car. I cough my longs out as I start the engine.

Two weeks later. I’m leading a corporate training in a hotel in Zurich. The conference room is on the first floor. I take the stairs as usual, focusing on the unobtrusive abstract paintings on the wall. After three steps I have to stop. Panting, I walk to the elevator. I lead the training half-sitting, half-standing, and take a power nap during the break.

The next day I reluctantly call my doctor. He offers to write a note for my employer so that I can take a few weeks off. I am my own employer. His note will not help. He prescribes medication for my long covid symptoms. They help a little, but there’s more under the surface.

I feel in my bones that this is not just about battling a nasty virus. It’s a message from my body telling me that -low and behold-  even I have limits. I am the healthy one, the strong one, the last one standing. But this year was a lot, even for me. I am parenting two young light-sleeping children while expanding my business in Zurich. My husband is building a deep tech startup. We’re supporting a family member through a severe mental health crisis. To top it off, we took in a Ukrainian refugee family. I still believe that was the right thing to do. We learned a lot from and with the family. And also, it cracked the pillar I tried to be.

There’s a pattern engrained in me that my husband calls ‘the soldier’. It kicks in when times get tough. I am focused and laser sharp. I am kind but firm, thorough yet pragmatic.  I balance everyone’s needs. Except my own. I am secretly proud that I can hold so much, keep going where others stop, and that I am not afraid to face the mess that’s called life.

But the cost of the soldier lodged deep inside me: I assume that no-one could or should do the same for me. That ultimately, I should hold my own pain  - even if I know I deprive people of the opportunity to be close to me in hard times.

I have seen with my own eyes how much people love to give. When the Ukrainian family arrived at our home, we asked our neighbors for clothes and received so many that we had to donate bags to the church. And I know that with my stubbornness, I deprive people of the joy of giving.

Three months into long COVID I still only accept the bare minimum of support. I allow a friend to cook for us once. The rest of the time I cook dinner for the family. I sit on a stool, forehead against the extractor hood, stirring the veggies with blurred vision.

“I manage”, I tell people who ask with kind faces.

“So many people have it worse”, I mutter when I feel sorry for myself.

“I will rest later”, I believe.

One night, Ciri texts me. I almost overlook it. “Can I meditate with you”, she writes. “It might help.” I want to decline, knowing how busy she is. I reread the text and see her clear  blue eyes in my mind. My body loosens. I send her a red heart and the holding back tears emoji. The next evening, her kind face pops up on my phone screen. “You don’t have to do anything,” she says,” just relax and think of the thing that bothers you most. Then let it release.” Exhaustion washes over me. I’m so done with waking up dead tired. I am done climbing stairs like a centenarian with COPD. I want to feel light again.  “Close your eyes, and follow my voice”, Ciri guides me. I let go. Tears stream down my face. I finally surrender.

A week later I call my mother, triumphant. I boast that I just brought my daughter to daycare with the stroller, the whole 1.5 kilometer there and back. My voice is more steady, my muscles less shaky.

Two weeks later, I host a full-day Women’s Hub event. By the end my voice is a rasp and my body feels hit by a truck. But I did it, and I enjoyed it to the fullest.

Every winter after that, I get very sick again. Not as bad as that first season, but enough to remind me to let people care for me even when I worry it's inconvenient for them. That is the practice from now on. Not soldiering. Allowing.

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That was sneak preview #5

I am so curious to hear from you! Have you written a book, and do you have tips for how to keep going? How did this story resonate with you? How do you know that you are in attunement, or not? I’d love to hear from you.

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