I spent last Thursday alone. For an eight-hour stretch of the day, it was just me, soaking up some peace and quiet at my mom’s apartment.

At any other period in my adult life, this would not be a notable event. I’ve long appreciated solitude, and have found immeasurable healing by spending extended time alone.

But it’s been years since I’ve had the opportunity to do that. With the exception of a four-day postpartum stint at a mental hospital—which, for many reasons, I don’t count—last Thursday marked my first full day away from my partner or daughter since the pandemic began.

That, my friends, is a long time.

In preparation for my day alone, I packed a swimsuit, book, journal, and my laptop. I planned to spend the day lounging in the pool, devouring my book, perhaps even taking a glorious afternoon nap. I expected to feel immediate relief and relaxation.

Instead, I cried. As soon as I entered my mom’s empty, quiet, clean apartment, tears began to flow.

I wasn’t entirely sure why I was crying. But I knew those tears were worth listening to. Even when our minds can’t pinpoint that something is wrong, our bodies can.

After a good cry, I went for a long walk. I returned to the apartment and read. I listened to some music and took several deep breaths. I never got into the pool, but told myself I’d swim next time.

I promised myself there would be a next time.

My day alone wasn’t nearly the restorative experience I was hoping for. I spent a lot of it feeling jittery, unsure, and unmoored. I took a good portion of it to catch up on work. As it turns out, eight hours of alone time isn’t nearly enough to balance out two and a half years of stress, anxiety, and change.

But it’s a start. Being alone made me realize how starved I was for solitude—how heavy the past two-plus years have been. I spend so much of my time taking care of others. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to take care of myself, too.

Even the most temporary reprieve from the weight of the world would have many of us feeling lots of feelings.

The past few years have been hard. It’s been disproportionately hard on women, who have taken on the majority of caregiving duties since the start of the pandemic. It’s been hard for workers, who are now navigating the risks and awkwardness of returning back to the office. Things have been hard for single people, who might be lonely, and for people living in packed households, who might be desperate for some alone time. It’s been hard for people who have lost a loved one and for people who have lived in fear of the worst. It’s been hard for all of us.

Throughout the trials of the past few years, we’ve accumulated layer upon layer of sadness, of worry, of grief. (A “trauma lasagna,” as a funny friend of mine calls it.) It makes sense that, if we were to pause—if we gave ourselves uninterrupted time to sit in silence—tears would soon follow.

At the end of my solo day, I texted Becca, my friend and trusty newsletter editor. I told her that I needed a reset, an opportunity to rest and recharge. Her reply was immediate: I do, too.

I believe strongly in taking time off. As a freelancer, though, getting away from work can be difficult to do. I don’t get paid vacation days. I don’t have a coworker to handle things while I’m away.

At the same time, I do have the luxury of making my own rules. I prioritized my mental wellbeing during last year’s summer break. This year, I’m planning to do the same thing.

Starting tomorrow, Becca and I will get that break we both need. Just like last summer, we’re taking six weeks off from publishing weekly My Sweet Dumb Brain essays.

That means that this newsletter will be on hiatus for free readers until mid-August. Paid readers will continue to get weekly updates, though they’ll be more informal. Some weeks, I might share photos of my time away from the laptop. During others, I may offer a few random bits of inspiration. I’m planning to use this break as an opportunity to experiment, and I’m grateful for the folks who will be following along.

Keep getting newsletters over the break

I’m not sure when things will get better. The COVID-19 pandemic seems to be here to stay. The news remains ever depressing. Our leaders, ever disappointing. These days, the future can feel pretty bleak.

Which is all the more reason to take care of ourselves. To take some time off. To carve out opportunities to collect teeny, tiny moments of joy.

Over the past few years, we have all given up parts of ourselves. We have set plans aside. We have compromised our values. We have had to let go of certain dreams. We have grown increasingly disillusioned with the world.

It can feel like we have no control over our own happiness or wellbeing. But we do.

I believe that when we go through dark times, we are faced with two choices: To let the darkness swallow us, or to find the light within that darkness. There have been many times over the past few years, especially lately, that I’ve been tempted to give into despair. Sometimes, it seems easier to let the darkness win.

Eventually, though, I do see the light. Before I know it, I’m like a moth, drawn to that brighter place. I remember that it’s my job—as a mom and partner, daughter and friend, neighbor and fellow human being—to find the goodness in the world and to do what I can to spread that goodness. I remember that everything starts with me. I remind myself that, without rest, I won’t have the energy required to give back to others.

We are not meant to work all the time, nor are we meant to constantly worry. Lately, though, it feels like that’s all I do: work and worry. That’s not the example I want to set for my daughter. Working and worrying is not how I want to spend my precious remaining days on this earth.

So here’s to rest. To light. To finding goodness in the world.

If you’re a paying subscriber of My Sweet Dumb Brain, you’ll continue to receive newsletters during this six-week break. If not, I’ll be back in your inboxes on Tuesday, August 16.

I hope you also find an opportunity for rest and relaxation.

xoxo
KHG

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My Sweet Dumb Brain

What happens when we pause