I lied when I said I'd bring a salad
...and about one other thing too
Last weekend, I got invited to a private mini-retreat for guided meditation, time in nature, and engaging with others in peaceful silence. All of which would’ve been an amazing gift in and of itself if it didn’t also come at a time when I could use just a wee bit of that in my life.
The week leading up to the Saturday mini-retreat was busy and stressful as usual. I almost missed the opportunity altogether because I buried the invitation.
So it wasn’t until my fairly late RSVP that I noticed the one and only thing the organizer asked of us attendees: please bring a vegetarian salad.
When I noted the request on Friday, I had multiple meetings scheduled for the remainder of the afternoon. I wouldn’t be able to run to the store after work, because I had plans to meet a friend for dinner and to attend a talk by a Buddhist monk (unrelated to said mini-retreat) at a local college. Luckily, I remembered a super easy and tasty New York Times recipe, so, feeling like a genius, I opened Instacart on my phone and started adding tomatoes, red wine vinegar, and mozzarella pearls to my ALDI cart. Sweet! I could do this!
But just as I was about to hit submit, I remembered that I’d still need fresh basil—likely the one thing I might not be able to count on. I could buy the kind in a tube, I reasoned, but it seemed pointless to make a recipe so dependent on a garden-fresh taste if the basil was…from a tube.
As I was in the midst of deciding whether I should just get the fake basil, or scrap the plan and come up with something else altogether, the little red light on my computer lit up letting me know my next appointment had begun. From then until closing at 5 p.m., I never got a minute to breathe.
I met my friend after work and had a delightful evening, starting with a picnic of Indian takeout she’d picked up for us. The monk’s lesson was thought-provoking, (even if I did catch myself starting to drift off at least once).
It wasn’t until I got home and started setting the alarm for the next morning for the mini retreat that it hit me—I hadn’t submitted the order.
Damn.
“I’ll get to it early in the morning,” I told myself. “I’ll set my alarm for even earlier.”
But I’ll set the alarm for even earlier and give myself extra time happens to be the exact lie I tell myself, in regard to one chore or another, almost every single night. So, shocker, this one turned out to be no different!
By the time I was truly awake on Saturday morning and starting to process my situation, I knew I definitely hadn’t left myself enough time to run to Hy-Vee to get basil (or anything else). Let alone wash, chop, etc.
I’ve got fresh fruit, I thought in a panic. It’ll have to do.
So I started to create a concoction with oranges, bananas….what else did I have on hand that would seem purposeful and not like a tacky-as-fuck bowl of random produce?
I reached up to grab my large serving bowl, did a quick hip twist to escape the reach of a scratchy cat, and dropped the bowl, shattering it on the floor.
And now my ride was here.
I ended up leaving the house with a bunch of apples in a bag.
I’ve been struggling to keep up with all the little things, which become big things when you don’t tend to them, for a frighteningly long while now, at least two years.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never struggled with things like this before. It’s something I’ve never confessed aloud: the sheer number of social invitations I’ve declined—or backed out of at fairly late notice—because I couldn’t get myself to dump some shit in a bowl and stir it.
I used to be active in a women’s outdoor club, one that often scheduled hikes that end in a potluck. Fun, right? (Yes, but I’m not going to be able to make it after all, sorry. Was in midst of lacing up shoes, just saw mention of ‘bring dish to pass.’)
But I’ve also in the past been able to rally. I do, after all, possess self-awareness about my struggles. I spend time journaling and reading personal-growth books. I’ve always been able to—eventually—get inspired about ways to help myself improve.
But something has changed.
It’s a constant feeling of overwhelm and discombobulation. Not just a struggle to concentrate and plan and remember details, but to make a right turn and not drive over the curb. To actually load my packed suitcase before driving away on a trip. And on and on.
At first, I thought all this was stemming from the fact that I’d fallen away from meditating. I’d started practicing in 2018 as one of those aforementioned self-improvement bents. The practice would end up helping me stay sane(ish) when I found myself in solitary lockdown—and then unemployed—during you-know-when.
It likely also has to do with taking a job that turned out to be so fast-paced and demanding that I can barely get up to run to the bathroom, let alone take an appropriate and much-needed break. (It has even led to accidentally ingesting soap.)
Terrifyingly, though, I’m also finally putting the pieces together that this exact two-year timeframe—of feeling like every small thing is a huge struggle—just so happens to align with a biological (i.e. hormonal) shift.
Somehow, despite being a person who reads and looks things up for fun, I had no idea that a major drop-off in estrogen can negatively affect cognition.
Then, when I did learn about it, I didn’t want to believe it.
It’s hard enough as a Gen Xer who thinks deep down she might still be a 90s teen to accept aging in general. But I’m also going to lose my freaking mind? And aren’t I at least a little bit too young for that?
But I can no longer live in denial. I have to accept that simply by committing the sin of being female, I (and millions of other women around my age) am in danger of brain changes “resembling those that precede dementia.”
(I know!)
To add a cherry (or in my case, a random apple) to the top of this shit-sundae, it turns out that hormone-shift-induced brain change can worsen a condition that impacts the brain’s executive function, making simple tasks—like calculating the amount of time needed to shop for ingredients, chop them, and find the right container to put them in—a significant challenge. A condition I learned at age 40 fucking 7 that I’ve likely had my whole life, but was never considered/ harder to determine and diagnose because I was a girl, and only boys mattered. (To put it one way.) And that scores of women my age are also just now learning, at 40 fucking 7 and older, that they’ve always had it, too.
(If you haven’t already figured out what it is, good news, I plan to write about it more.)
But for now let’s just say that since I’ve been in full-on meno, my executive is not only no longer functioning, she has left the building.
At the mini-retreat, after a hike on a wooded property on a gorgeous spring day, we began a session of silent meditation. I found my brain going to utter self-criticism, which I then tried to shift to a kinder sense of curiosity:
What could today feel like if I’d gotten up in enough time? If I’d not only been up to do that simple chore, but even given myself enough time to sit on my porch reading, writing, sipping coffee? Setting intentions for the day? Prepped the goddamned salad and been sitting with it on my lap, waiting for my friend to pick me up?
(She may not have recognized me, that’s what.)
Oh wait, back to curiosity not criticism. Damn, it’s hard.
I returned to the breath.
I hope I can return to meditation. I hope that beautiful mini-retreat will have served as a (re)turning point.
And if I can get myself to return, I hope the ancient and nervous-system-calming practice can—hormones be damned—help me regain my ability to think straight, to plan, to remember things, to prioritize, to not feel that tiny tasks are major undertakings (to then put off and avoid altogether, until it’s too late and they shatter on the floor.)
I’ll focus on this for now, and snooze button issues later.
One self-help struggle at a time.
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I agree with Angela that this will pass. But when? Ah, that's a great question! One of my responses to the brain fog has been to give up expecting (or even wanting) to stay on top of everything. I'm still an excessive juggler, but I'm a lot kinder to myself when I drop a ball. Hang in there!