I have one childhood memory of my Mom resting. One.

 

She was knocked out by a terrible case of shingles. I don't know what was more shocking; seeing that angry, red rash across her body or seeing her lying down at a time other than sleeping time.

 

I take after my Mom in a lot of ways. My Mom and I are do'ers, more often than not in motion getting things done. And though I have gotten very good about outsourcing and delegating for work, giving myself the space to be supported isn't easy. 

 

Last week, I finally stepped in to physical therapy. My shoulder has been bothering me for so long that I can't remember when it wasn't bothering me. So that would be years because the problem definitely started pre-pandemic. I finally got a referral for PT from my PCP last July. It then took me 8 months to follow up on it because, LIFE. Aside from the pandemic, I was dealing with difficult things in my personal and professional lives. I needed to hold a lot of shit together for other people and so I just trudged on in pain. 

 

When I finally called the PT office a few weeks back, I almost gave up due to some runaround about my referral (coupled with my deep hatred of using the telephone). But I eventually did book the evaluation and it left me in tears. I recently shared about this on Instagram:

Through this session, I was reminded that I need support -- generally, yes, but the thing that blew my mind is that I learned that even the way I sit at my desk all day is on high alert and unsupported (OMG I bought an erg chair and haven't even been using it right). And even the way I sleep at night requires more bolstering and support. As she talked and gave me next steps, and didn't say I was broken and beyond repair, or that I needed to stop playing tennis (I was really worried she was going to say that) I could feel the tears in my eyes.

At the end of our direct work, my physical therapist asked if I had time for heat treatment and without looking at the clock I said, "YES." She prepped the table, helped me get into position, and set a timer. And as I lay there on my back, with heat and support under my neck and a giant block under my legs so they could rest at a 90 degree angle, I surrendered and let the tears roll.

It's very hard for someone like me, who has been on my own financially since age 18 and is aggressively tuned to holding shit together for myself and people around me to be supported. But it's time. I am ready.

 

One of the very best things about sharing about my difficulty in letting go and being supported was that I received many comments and messages from people who shared that they had been living with pain for a long time and were finally going to do something about it. It was a sobering reminder of how women often default to grinding through pain, long after the point where they need to stop, rest, and be supported.

 

When I returned for my next appointment, at one point my physical therapist said, “My friend, if something hurts, stop. Don't push yourself to the point of pain. It's OK to get tired. It's not OK to be in pain.”

 

It seems I will learn something with each visit.