LITTLE BY LITTLE: IT’S THE heartbeat of any recovery. You begin by believing the people who love you, who assure you it can—it will—get better. The process is brutal and grueling and slower than you would like, but you keep going, little by little, until one day you realize each step doesn’t require unimaginable effort. And after that, you find the rhythm again. And then you start the next season,the next story. You move forward into a new, unknowable future. But you keep the joy and wisdom and resilience you’ve earned with your pain and grit. The gifts of the recovery are yours to keep.
I walked through the holidays in just this manner: little by little. Kim continued to ask me the right questions, and in doing so, she handed me new tools. They felt too heavy in my hand at first, but after a few uses, their handles formed to my grip, and I was able to wield them with competence and, sometimes, even confidence. I was continuing to learn to say yes to what gave me joy and no to a whole host of obligations I really, really didn’t want to do. Of course I occasionally reverted to persistent, pesky old habits—predicting disaster or diagnosing myself with psychological disorders and allergies or agreeing to something that clearly should’ve been a no. But I learned to be gentle with myself, to take my own hand and distract myself as if I were an overtired toddler, saying gently, “Let’s do something else.” Little by little, I found the beat again.
I had an appointment with Kim in late March. I commented on her new clock, told her about some neighborhood gossip. Even after two weeks, I didn’t have much to address. We were just catching up. We may as well have had a plate of small cucumber sandwiches between us, dainty cups of tea in our hands.
“Kim, thank you for all you’ve done for me. You’re very good at what you do.”
“I appreciate that,” she said sincerely, “but it’s because we’re a good fit for each other. You’re insightful by nature, but I’m able to help you think about things a little differently.”
I was very fortunate that Kim and I had clicked, that she had been able to see past the fragile woman on the couch to a more whole version of me. She believed we could resurrect that woman. She believed it for both of us.
I looked up at Kim. Her hair was down and behaving well, as usual. I looked at her familiar, comforting face and then glanced at the clock to see we were nearly out of time.
I felt a brief stab of hesitation, a reflexive jerk of I don’t really like change, before I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Is it okay if I call you or text you when I’m ready for my next appointment?” I knew this was the natural and right and expected next step, but the words hung between us, and I felt the tiniest pinch of grief between my eyes, the slight sting of tears. Everything changes, and sometimes I still hated it.
But I felt better when I glanced up to see Kim smiling. She nodded encouragingly, as if I had pegged the right answer, and said, “That sounds perfect.”
Shay and I sat together at the small round conference table in her office as we reviewed the printed form for my annual review. She gave me positive feedback. In addition to updating the library’s books on technology (the one with a typewriter on the cover really had to go),I’d begun hosting lunchtime book clubs with the easy, straightforward goal of enjoying books with the fifth-graders. It turned out my work had been more than adequate.
We finished the formalities and both signed the piece of paper that sat between us before she leaned back slightly in her chair. I looked up at her and said, “Thank you, Shay. Thank you for helping me figure out how to keep going with this job. I’m truly grateful.” When I’d walked into her office in the spring, she’d validated the difficulty of balancing work and motherhood. She had helped me feel less alone.
“Of course,” she said genuinely. “We wanted to keep you, Julie.”
I can’t say if what had happened to me was avoidable. When I returned to work, I received plenty of general advice about “letting things slide,” but no one could define precisely what those “things” were. Burnout crept up on me quickly and quietly, as it does for many women.
Once the scales were tipped, it was extremely difficult to rebalance them. Our medical system doesn’t provide a soft landing for those who need support with their mental health. I have yet to see a box on any form for Mom Experiencing Extreme Burnout. I was an educated, driven woman with resources, and I struggled to find support in those early weeks when I knew something was wrong but couldn’t seem to articulate what it was. What about those who don’t have my advantages or resources or knowledge of the system? It would be so easy to fall through the cracks or to muddle along in a sad, persistent autopilot state.
“It’s hard for women to keep themselves on the to-do list,” I told Shay. “The world asks a lot, doesn’t it?”
Shay nodded, and then we stood up together. “You should write a book about that,” she said, as I headed for the door.