Worn Thin

houseThe last six and a half months have included the most difficult moments, decisions, and weeks/months of my life. While I don’t regret anything, I wouldn’t volunteer to go through these months again. Once was more than enough, thank you.

Two days ago, I bought a house. It’s a cute little house. Three bedrooms (so the boys will each have their own rooms); two bathrooms (so we won’t have hallway traffic jams on weekday mornings); and perhaps most importantly, in the kids’ school district.

It’s a good little house. Built in 2008, it’s still pretty new. The inspection report came back clean—there are a few things I should do sometime soon, like add gutters, but nothing major. It should be fairly easy to maintain; it has stained concrete floors inside and Hardiplank outside, along with a level yard so it’ll be easy to mow.

This house should provide a good place for my boys and me to be for the foreseeable future. I am pleased. I am proud of myself. I am hopeful about new beginnings in new spaces.

I’m also exhausted. Maybe even fraying at the edges. 

Over the last six months or so, I’ve recognized that transition/transformation is hard work. I’ve been intentional about self-care: making time to rest; devoting energy to prayer and study; cooking good, healthy food. I’ve tried to be better about relying on the strength of community and admitting need.

On a deeper level, I’ve been exploring ideas about discovering strength in and through vulnerability. I’ve worked on forgiving myself for mistakes and shortcomings. I’ve tried to incorporate the broken pieces of my past and my present, rather than hide or gloss over them. Wholeness, rather than perfection, is my goal.

Overall, I think I’ve done well and made good choices. And yet right now, I’m worn thin. Existentially tired. Sometimes, feeling like I’m barely holding it together.

At Home Depot the other day, the guy at checkout asked if he could help me out to my car. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ve got it.” Then we stood there awkwardly for a moment as I looked at my two full carts, realizing I couldn’t get them out to my car by myself even if I tried. “How ‘bout I help load some of that in the car for you, ma’am?” he asked again. “Um, yes, that’s probably a good idea,” I replied. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

What I was thinking was… actually, I wasn’t. That was my autopilot: I don’t need help; I’ve got everything under control. Including myself.

I am glad to be here. Thankful for each day. Appreciative of community. Mindful that I am privileged in many ways. Hopeful about beginning a new year (Rosh Hashana is right around the corner!) in a new place, in a new way.

Also, I could really use a break.

9 thoughts on “Worn Thin

  1. Change is so damn hard. Exhausting. And such a beautiful opportunity for new beginnings and realities that we never could have foreseen through all the ‘stuff’.
    This is temporary.
    It gets better.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Mazel tov on your new beginnings. One way out of sadness is to be the change you wish to see in the world. With your new house, instead of mowing, which uses fossil fuels and wastes our valuable resource, water, rid yourself of that negative space. There are many resources available to learn about and practice no-mow alternatives for home landscaping. Our environment is in dire need for xeric, pollinator/wildlife friendly plants. Here’s an opportunity to connect, in a real way, with making a positive change and to help heal our world. And while you’re doing that, you might just make yourself feel better too. You’ll be outdoors, you’ll plant for and attract wildlife to your plot of the Earth. Check out Austin’s local garden blogging community, the locally owned nurseries, and the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Change starts at home.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is smart, succinct, and honest. Please keep blogging.

    I’m here because you asked to join the Apache Post. As an admin there, I’m tasked with verifying that people asking to join are (a) actually people–we get all kinds of weird spam–and (b) have some kind of connection to the area. So I investigated a smidgen, clicked a couple of links, and landed here. And then I read all of your posts, when I really should have been working.

    Anyway, I can’t speak to your other choices, but in neighborhoods, I bet you’ll find that Apache is a good one. It’s all kinds of diverse, and while there are things that will absolutely infuriate you, the people here are well intentioned, playful, and kind. And Apache is, like no other place I’ve lived, a real community, which is something I didn’t know I needed till I found it.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Mazal Tov again on finding your new makom, your place of shelter, wholeness. Mazal tov too on recognizing that sometimes you have to stop and take time to assess, to recognize not only your faults but your gifts, and yes, to reset, to renew. Our calendar is a blessing full of those opportunities, this being just one of several. Take this time for self-reflection, for allowing yourself a few “al hets” for the misses of the past, and to reset your compass to move forward. And remember, your community, your friends, are here with you. B’Shalom.


  5. Pingback: Reengaging | yaira robinson

  6. Pingback: My Year: Divorce and Everything after, through the Lens of Jewish Holidays | yaira robinson

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