It’s not that the first thirty years of my life were perfectly charmed. I had my share of struggles and heartbreak and hard times. There were many times that I drew on the strength and love of my family and friends. Yet, I always had a clear sense that I would overcome. I believed in my own strength and determination. I knew I was tenacious, stubborn, and driven, and I never thought those struggles would keep me from the life I wanted.
Then I met post-partum depression. I had a colicky infant, a two-year-old who still felt so much like a baby, and a cloud that wouldn’t lift. I cried all the time. Everything felt hard.
Still, I knew what was happening and felt confident it wouldn’t last forever. I believed in the tools and resources available to me. And, about seven months after my daughter was born, I started coming out of the fog. The cloud lifted and I started to feel like myself again. An exhausted and emotionally depleted version of myself, but myself nonetheless.
And then I got sick. Really, really, really sick. I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease. I was in constant pain. I had Bell’s Palsy, and suddenly I looked weird and talked weird. I couldn’t read, couldn’t focus my eyes on a screen. I couldn’t pick up my babies. Being in any kind of public setting felt impossible.
I had been a therapist for years and had heard many people talk about mornings they couldn’t get out of bed. I responded with compassion, but in a tiny, hidden part of my brain I would think “I bet you actually could get out of bed. If you had to.” But in those first months of being sick, there were days when getting out of bed was impossible.
I completely lost the sense that I would overcome. I lost all belief in my own strength and tenacity. Any remaining illusion of self-sufficiency was swept away. I had met a wall I couldn’t climb.
This is part of my story. It’s not my favorite part, and it’s nowhere close to the whole of who I am. But it is part of my story, a necessary part.
I know that everybody has a story. Everyone has an experience or a moment that wipes away any illusion of self-sufficiency. Everyone, at some point or another, meets a wall that they can’t climb. I don’t care how persistent or stubborn or tenacious you are. At some point you will come face to face with your own neediness and limitations. And if you haven’t yet, you will.
When I was confronted with my own limitations and neediness, I had to rely on others. I had to let them in to the messiest corners of my home and heart. I had a dear friend who left her own small children for a week to come and take care of mine. My mom flew out and helped in so many ways, emotionally and physically. I had friends who made meals and friends who held space for me and all of my big, scary emotions.
I had met a wall I couldn’t climb. And no one could fix it or take it away for me. But I didn’t have to sit alone and weep. I had people who sat with me, and people who lifted me up.
Receiving that kind of love was, and always is, deeply beautiful and deeply humbling. And I wouldn’t have survived without it.
This part of my story is still teaching me about my limitations and neediness, still teaching me to rely on good, safe people who love me well. It’s teaching me about a deep spiritual neediness and a deeper spiritual care.
I know you have a story, a loss, an obstacle bigger than you. There may be days you can’t get out of bed, not because you aren’t strong enough, but because the battle is that hard.
Please don’t face it alone. Invite people in, and then invite them in again and again.
Learn to rely on the people who rely on you. Let them sit with you in the dark and painful places; let them hold space for your biggest feelings. Let them bring you food and coffee and hope. Let them share their stories with you and learn to hold each other up.
We need each other, and we need each other most in those dark, untenable places. Be someone who joins with those you love when they are hurting, and be someone who can receive the love they offer when you meet your own wall.