Yesterday I went to help my husband's grandma set up her church for Mother's Day, and I genuinely wanted to help. I just didn't realize how long we'd be there or how physically demanding it was going to be.
By the end of it, my Fitbit recorded over 7,500 steps. My daily goal is 3,500. Not because I'm lazy, but because I already know my limits and actively try not to push past them unless I have to.
I helped put together a balloon arch mostly by myself.
After a while my arms started hurting, then my back started hurting, and eventually everything started stacking together. I smelled like latex from the balloons, except my brain kept translating the smell into iron or blood. I was sweaty, overstimulated, and I hadn't sat down for hours.
When I finally sat down, I ended up helping untangle this giant knot of balloon ribbons from Publix while trying not to feel sick.
The pastor's wife actually tried helping me with them because they were such a disaster.
At that point I never really got back up to finish the arch. I started shutting down hard.
Being in unfamiliar places already triggers anxiety for me, and my body reacts to it physically almost immediately. My stomach gets wrecked, my whole nervous system starts firing alarms, and eventually it spirals into nausea and sensory overload. Smells get too loud somehow. Sounds feel sharp.
Textures start bothering me. My body goes rigid.
I sat there clenching my jaw so hard it hurt because I was trying not to throw up.
Grandma wanted me to finish helping with the arch and I told her I just needed a few minutes. After that I barely talked at all. My husband noticed I was shutting down and rushed to finish everything himself.
The drive home was mostly silent because my jaw was still clenched shut.
When we got home, he helped put lidocaine patches on my back, I took painkillers and my meds, wrapped myself in a heated blanket while blasting freezing AC air at the same time, and immediately passed out.
A couple hours later I woke up because my elderly cat was yowling, and oddly enough that was the moment I realized I could finally move again.
What keeps bothering me isn't even just the pain. It's the guilt.
The entire time I was sitting there, dissociating and trying not to throw up, my brain kept going:
"You could keep going. You're almost done. You're just being dramatic. You're doing this for attention. You're being childish. Other people are picking up your slack."
And I think that's the part people don't really understand when you grow up learning to distrust your own pain, being told you just have anxiety.
I don't recognize I've gone too far until my body basically forces me to stop functioning.
It isn't a flex. It isn't strength. By the time I finally listen to my body, I'm shaking, nauseous, overwhelmed, and trying not to panic.
And the wild part is that the second I finally let myself rest and treat the pain, my entire body relaxes. Suddenly I can think again. I can breathe. I can sleep.
I'm happy I helped. I really am. I helped my husband's grandma.
I know she and the church appreciated it.
But I also walked away reminded that I genuinely cannot handle physical labor jobs the way I wish I could, and that's been sitting heavy on my chest for at least 10 years. Especially in a world where remote work feels like 70% scam listings and 30% actual opportunities hidden behind 4,000 fake applications.
I feel like I fail people the second my body stopped cooperating.
Heart (Caitlin Serviss)