I'm old, Gandalf

Remembering the summer of 2024

toast (slang)
“someone or something that is finished or done for”

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“I can't see myself anymore,” I said between sobs, my fingers covering my face. 

With half the kids already asleep, the last thirty minutes seemed a good opportunity to work on my creative writing. But rather than puzzling through a pacing issue in my novel, I stared at my laptop lock screen. My brain felt numb. As much as I longed to work on my novel—in that moment, I didn't know how.

This was mid-August, and most of our kids had gone to school for the first time that day. My husband’s graduate school was on a one-week break (most welcome after concurrent emotionally grueling classes). His job change was settling in, too, as we both grew used to his new demands, new colleagues, and new office space.

He entered our room that evening, fresh from a read-aloud of The Silver Chair—a new book for our oldest boys. I balanced my computer on my lap as we began puzzling through how to help a friend in financial need. We were on the brink of discussing the many school obligations and opportunities when I had to stop him. I didn’t feel right. 

I stood but promptly pivoted to the edge of our bed, where I crumpled against the groaning mattress. My four-month-pregnant belly pushed into my lungs. That’s right—through all the shifts of summer and jobs, I’m also expecting our sixth baby. 

The sun was near setting, casting a beautiful, golden glow across our room. All the pieces were right: the kids were asleep, and the moment seemed like the perfect opportunity to rest, plan, and connect. But my whole body was charged. My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow, and a familiar buzz of overwhelm swarmed distantly in my ears.

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Belly breaths have become a salve throughout this pregnancy. An intentional moment for a deep inhale, expanding my diaphragm, then a deep breath out, focusing on my muscles hugging my growing uterus.

I call them “hot cocoa breaths” when I practice them with my girls at night¹. We breathe deeply with our noses, as though smelling a mugful of rich cocoa. Then, with even measure, we exhale through our mouths, careful not to disturb imaginary marshmallows.

I often ease into my girls’ half-filled beanbag chair and lead three hot cocoa breaths before launching into our evening read-aloud.

Pregnancy has a way of making me feel very old doing very ordinary things, like climbing stairs or putting on shoes. Maybe it’s also part of the reality of edging to near to 40. The limits can help me see and savor the need for true physical rest, but this time, I didn’t notice what was happening. The glorious promise of rest came as all five kids started school, and I didn’t feel rest at all.

For three mornings a week, I would be with myself. But that night—that quiet, golden night—I felt hopeless. “I can't see myself anymore,” I had wept, and it was true.

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“I'm old, Gandalf. I know I don't look it but I'm beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel thin... sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.”²

I’m seriously prone to “doing it all” as a mom, and doing it all myself. Alllll the house-cleaning, permission slips, homework nudging, lunch packing, meal planning…³ The mental and physical load never ends.

This attitude served me far better in academics than it does shepherding the hearts of my five (nearly six) richly unique children. It’s not too helpful for being a healthy human, wife, or friend either.

I don't know when it happened in Summer 2024, when I pushed myself into burnout and bitterness. Nausea colored the early summer. Fatigue accompanied me to our splash pads, beach trips, and lazy-movie afternoons. Each kid got to participate in a weeklong set of activities: creating beautiful paintings, crafting jewelry, exploring illustrations, music, and clay pottery. This was a fun summer of camps, one like never before.

Amid it all, my husband and I decided on the job change together. But I took on too much in the transition: a solo week with the kids, longer hours as the old job wrapped up and the new one started, thinking through and preparing all the school things. All while still holding the unfulfilled desire to make progress in writing my novels.

I just.. I forgot to fight for rest. I forgot to honor it. I forgot to be gentle with myself. I forgot to respect my limits and fill my own well.

The heaviness has me going slowly again. I’m working to pay attention, for myself as much as for my family.

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I’d much rather be a lavishly rich bite of French toast than a dry, butter-starved piece of bread. What toast metaphor resonates with you most? Have you ever felt that feeling of “lostness” in your job or another place of your identity?

Here’s to resetting the reminder to grow curious, grow slow, and grow kind.

Warmly,

Rachael

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Photo by Seriously Low Carb on Unsplash

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1. This isn’t my idea, but the concept is all over the internet. :)

2. The first day I was truly with myself this schoolyear, I sipped a coffee and enjoyed rewatching The Fellowship of the Ring Extended Edition. How crazy-lavish is it to watch an epic fantasy by yourself in the middle of the morning??

3. Shout out that my husband is a WONDERFUL partner/teammate in this. He’s continually reminding me that I don’t need to act this way, but it’s truly my default to go-it-alone. It’s a place he and I are both growing together!