It’s been two weeks since my last essay/newsletter, and I have to say I’ve been beating myself up over it. Granted, my last essay was about how losing my father changed me. It was heavy and not what I had intended to sit down and write. I had written something else but wasn’t satisfied with the story because I found myself policing my writing, wondering how others would respond if it got out. So instead, I began drafting a new post with no idea what would come out until I remembered the podcast that helped open my eyes to grief and loss. But still, I had become so consumed with other responsibilities, commitments, and drama that I had no idea what to sit down and write next. All I could think about was how drained I was and how April didn’t go quite as imagined. April was an eventful month, don’t get me wrong. But not because my life was shifting towards the more I’ve been craving.
My life is evidence of one thing: my adulting tank is empty.
As I type, I periodically get a glance of outgrown nails that are cracked in some areas, begging to be done. Having nails done is a priority for me because it makes me feel like me - I feel like a well, put-together adult when they’re done. It’s been over a month since I last visited the nail salon. I’ve been thinking for weeks about how I need to call and make an appointment, but I either forgot because my attention is pulled elsewhere or another form of adulting needed to take precedence.
My kitchen sink sat full of dishes that needed to be washed. My counters sat full of items that needed to be put away. I stared at them as I worked because, no doubt, it was causing me anxiety. I felt like I couldn’t think clearly about anything anytime I looked at my kitchen.
Truthfully, I couldn’t think clearly or creatively about much because almost every day in April, I felt there was a problem I had to solve, whether it was work, personal related, or a friend’s problem. What was more daunting was that when I asked for help, few were willing to help me. Instead, most people relied on me to have the answer and me to solve the problem. And asking for help is something I rarely do. It’s a trauma response, as I grew up figuring out most things myself. When I did ask for help, I rarely received it. So when I ask for help now, it’s a vulnerable experience.
A part of addressing other people’s problems was realizing that they were not an adult about things. I had to remind them that:
People expect them to follow through when they commit to something
When conflict arises, communicate.
Communicate your capacity.
It’s okay if your capacity changed from when you first agreed to something, but again… communicate.
Conflict doesn’t have to be chaotic.
Addressing dissension doesn’t need to be disrespectful.
SLOW DOWN. When wires get crossed, slow down your thinking. Take time crafting your response.
Maybe my adulting tank has been empty because I was so busy reminding and wishing everyone else to be adults about things.
What’s triggering my anxiety is that I don’t have time for my adulting tank to be empty. I need to weigh decisions and a future I need to think about and map out. But deep down inside, I don’t want to be an adult. I want to play and have fun - I’m craving adventure. A break from adulting to let my inner child play, be creative, and take center stage. Little Maileah has been triggered, begging me to let her take a break from making decisions and having answers.
Maybe my adulting tank is empty because I’m heading into my quarter-life crisis, where I realize I’m not where I want to be. Part of my recent realization has been that I’ve outgrown specific spaces, have passions and talents I want to nurture more, and am tired of being doubted by others. There’s been this incessant feeling of “I want more, I’m ready for more,” but I don’t know what the heck more is.
This adulting tank crisis… whether it’s burnout, compassion fatigue, or a mixture of all three…it’s real.