Today it took me a good hour to make a snack. I didn’t get distracted with texting friends, or pause mid-prep to dance to music. A few years back, that would be the only reason a 20 minute activity would have tripled in duration.

But today the work was silent, methodical, deliberate. No attempt to multitask. Just one small step at a time. 

Open the fridge. Pause. 

Grab two avocados. Pause. 

I wash the avocados, turn off the water, grab my favorite knife from the drawer. 

Fisting an avocado in each hand, I stand, breathing deliberately. Reminding myself that I’m okay.

Nothing is wrong Morgan. Inhale. Exhale. 

You’re okay Morgan. Inhale. Exhale.

I do this weird thing that makes my sister worry. It’s one of those “I might puke” faces, and shove more air out of my lungs in a pursed exhale. It weirdly makes me feel better though, as if displaying the discomfort and mayhem that’s otherwise invisible reduces dissonance. 

I remind myself I’m not sick. I’m not sad. I’m not insane. 

And nothing is wrong.

Kinda sounds like I’m talking myself through a panic attack (not sure if it’s really possible to talk yourself through a true panic attack), but this is something different. This is me doing today’s business with a chronic sensory issue. As hard as it is to quantify the substance and level of the noise in my head, it never goes truly away…but it can seem to swell. 

The first three quarters of today was fine. I had great coaching calls, did some writing, and even tidied my office a bit. But then I worked a bit too late and the roar in my ears swelled. So a small snack of avocado mash, tortilla chips, and a fizzy drink seemed like the thing to do. Something I would usually throw together in a few minutes and hit the bathtub to wind down.

I joked to my mom that I’ve got sensory sundownings. I promise her I’ll be better in the morning. 

True, the noise in my head is just as likely to persist as it is to abate. But tomorrow morning, I will get to start over. I will have put my emotions to bed, sleeping snug in a walk-in-closet-turned-bedroom that smells of fresh Nova Scotia Balsam branches. Even if my ears aren’t better, my heart will have spent the night safe in my cocolozo, watched over by black and red flannel ribbon that matches the Christmas tree just outside the door. Whether I cry with sensory overwhelm when the lights go out and my ears keep screaming or not…I will sleep. Praise God I still sleep. And in sleep my heart will rest.

But for tonight, I noticed something that I wanted to make note of. I can see it, even in the noise and mental fatigue. I noticed that I have learned to deliberately build a life of sanity. To make room with methodical steps for calm and peace to return. As if drained of my electric charge, I haven’t been able to chase after clarity and knowledge and completion under my own steam lately.

In the absence of my ability to chase I have learned the passive disciplines of progress. I’ve learned to make room for the clarity to settle in when it’s ready, for the noise to leave when it can, for the action to flow when energy does rise, supported on its journey by the plodding, gentle movements I took to clear a runway while I waited. 

I was not born a deliberate person. Anyone who knew me as a kid or young professional would come up with thousands of descriptors and still leave “cautious” “careful” and “deliberate” on the unused words pile. I came into this world a tiny, adventurous human, and my family provided no end of adventure for me to run headlong into.

Hmmm…headlong. That’s a funny word. It tastes different tonight , as my own brain feels like overstretched taffy, teased and electrocuted into a wild shape. I’ve become a claymation of myself, needing to be willing to make small movements, small movements, small movements. To be satisfied with what is created in the long run, and release my ego’s preference for sprinting. 

I don’t know what chronic drains may plague your life today, whether they’re new challenges or old sorrows. But I want to encourage you that you don’t have to choose between “Being ON” and feeling broken. Especially for those of us used to taking life at a dead run, there is a deliberate sanity in developing what I’ve come to think of as “low gear.” Of opening your life to the humility of small steps, and receiving the grace that comes when you let your heart rest in sleep, and welcome whatever newness can come tomorrow.

Even if tomorrow still holds struggle in it. 

Post Script: Living in Low Gear

As I take a minute to fix typos and add this to the Wild + Brave Blog, I want to say thank you to the wonderful humans in my life who are encouraging and supporting me as I deal with this Tinnitus and Hyperacusis. I crossed the 2 year anniversary of the sudden onset of it this Thanksgiving, and most of my closest friends agree: it feels like I’ve been dealing with this much longer. I think that’s the nature of chronic suffering. It extends life, though perhaps not in the way we would choose. 

And yet, my life has felt extended. Perhaps it is learning to live in “low gear” as I talked about in this blog. This low gear gives me something I hope to retain even if my brain wakes up from its fuge and returns to neurotypical life someday. I want to put more life in my days, build deliberately toward the meaning my soul was meant for.

In this way, a suffering I would have never chosen has given me resources I treasure above comfort. I don’t pretend suffering always does this for everyone, but want you to know I won’t get tired of hearing about what you’re dealing with. I know it can be the hardest thing to keep taking deliberate steps of sanity when the pain in your life is screaming “we’re not okay!” 

If you or someone you love is struggling to get through the day, and this blog resonates with you, I hope you’ll let me know if I can be of encouragement. Check out my Free Coaching Calendar if you want to talk. Chronic stuff can be hard to talk about with those closest to us, because we can feel like broken records. But we need to talk. If I can listen as a friend or peer I’d be honored to do that.