It was the milk that made me cry

Or maybe it was everything else...

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Bluebells on a spontaneous stroll across the side of a mountain

It was the milk that made me cry.

On a bright sunny morning, enjoying some much-needed peace and quiet in my bed, and even breakfast. But then the milk had run out. Not even my milk, but my dearest’s milk. Barely enough to cover the Weetabix in his bowl.

So I climbed back into bed with breakfast (his bowl topped up with water because he’s a heathen) and could feel my throat closing up, my eyes pricking.

What the f*ck? Was a lack of milk seriously going to make me cry?

He looked askance at me, wondering why (just as I was) the milk was such a problem. So into my whirling mind I went.

What does it mean to have no single best friend?

To not have that one person you call when the sh*t hits the fan.

To not have that one person who knows all of your darkest secrets (and so must remain, forever, your best friend, lest they destroy you in a fiery ball of fury—is that dramatic?).

What does it mean to, instead, have friends who are the closest, who know many parts of you, but not all of you, to have more than one person to call to your aid when Gondor is in serious trouble? Sorry, when the proverbial hits that fan again.

Is one way of friends better than the other?

The brilliant green new growth, looking vaguely like feathers

“What question is challenging you or fascinating you right now?”

I was gifted this question, if such a thing can be done, by a wonderful coach and speaker, Jane Adshead-Grant. It was asked to a group of other coaches, who took a moment to look suitably ponderous and questioning. It turns out it’s actually not such an easy question to answer.

Some responses:

What will I do next?

Am I in the right place?

Where should I move to?

Mine was, “What does vulnerability mean to me right now?” Which actually was a response to my letter last week.

From day to day, even moment to moment, your answer to this question will change.

What would your question be?

It wasn’t the milk that made me cry.

It was the everything in my brain.

The emails to send, the budget to update, the to-do list that has been breeding behind my back, the constant questions that need answering, the things that need figuring out, the worries that happen even when someone makes a decision instead of me (oh god, what will happen to the budget if we do that?), the person I haven’t called and the resulting shame that also seems to breed like Dementors in the mist.

The single phrase that rang true in my head and opened the floodgates.

I. Am. Struggling.

I cried.

“It’s okay to return to what we once needed space from. It’s okay to come to new understandings of ourselves in the midst of having space to do so. It’s okay to reorient toward our desires and gifts, again and again, in new and similar shapes.” — Human Stuff, Lisa Olivera

It can feel like taking a step backwards. Though, that implies doing something. Perhaps it’s more like sliding backward down a muddy slope where I’m liable to faceplant right at the end, just when I think I’m safe.

Or maybe it’s giving myself space. Maybe it’s listening to what I need and want at that precise moment. That question comes up—what question challenges you or fascinates you? — and I know my answer is different now.

Does it matter if I have no career? Does it matter that I don’t have the answer to the question I ask? Does it matter that my shape changes so frequently, no one knows (including me) where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing next year?

And isn’t that exciting?

Recognising and consciously thinking the truth, that I was struggling, made me cry.

Of course I knew I was struggling. But it was that conscious idea, that moment of realisation, that moment of holy crap, that’s what the problem is—that’s what made me break.

But broken things don’t always have to remain broken. What goes down can actually come back up.

The sun always rises in the morning.

Until it doesn’t and then none of it will matter anyway.

“[Resilience is] the result of refusing to roll over or lie down for too long. of having an unpredictable life, of living through trauma and tragedy, instead of living in it.” — On ephemerality, right here on this Sub.

Despite the struggle, despite the overwhelm and the voracious to-do list and the endless decisions, I refuse to lie down for too long.

But I will take a little rest, thank you. Because otherwise I will break far longer and far harder than before.

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Thanks for reading, as ever. Here’s a peaceful video of a reservoir, because you deserve some calm water sounds.

Remember to let me know what your question was in the comments (or hit reply for you email readers out there!).

Until next week, go with all my love and care and my hope that, even if you break this week, you remember to get back up (after a little rest).

K x

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I’m taking part in the Essay Club run by Claire Venus. This is essay 5/24 to be published by 31st Jan 2025.