Pacing has always been difficult for me.
For years, my preferred method of energy management was simple: throw every ounce of energy I had into accomplishing something and then collapse when it was finished.
Was this pacing? No.
Was it effective? Mostly no.
But I got things done.
Then I paid the price with a flare.
As the years went on and my health became more complicated, that strategy stopped working. I couldn’t keep up with work, my house, my health, and my family. Something had to give, and that something was usually my house.
I put my energy into my job and my family. Meanwhile, things at home slowly migrated from I’ll get to that this weekend to perhaps future generations will deal with it.
Fast-forward to the present, and I’m now officially considered disabled. For the first time in my adult life, I have what seems like all the time in the world to take care of my house, run errands, do laundry, cook meals, and generally participate in the activities of daily living.
Except there’s one minor problem.
I still can’t keep up.
Today, for example, I decided I was going to clean the house.
Nothing crazy. I wasn’t planning to pressure-wash the siding or install hardwood floors. Just normal household chores.
I threw in a load of laundry.
Then I started sorting recyclables.
While doing that, I discovered that one of my cats had left me a surprise.
You don’t need details.
I’m still processing the trauma.
After dealing with The Incident, I decided I needed a shower immediately. This was no longer optional.
Up until this point, I thought I was doing great. Look at me! Laundry! Recycling! Catastrophe management! Personal hygiene!
I was basically crushing chronically ill adulthood.
And then the shower took me out.
A shower.
Not hiking a mountain. Not running a 5K. Not scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees.
I stood under some water and washed myself. I didn’t even dry my hair.
Apparently, that was today’s Ironman competition.
When I got out, my body essentially announced, “Thank you for participating. Today’s activities have now concluded.”
I’ve barely been able to function since. I’ll probably need a nap before I can attempt anything else.
And this is where I struggle with the concept of pacing.
I’ve read dozens of articles explaining that pacing is one of the keys to living with chronic illness. Don’t overdo it on good days. Break activities into manageable pieces. Rest before you’re exhausted. Alternate harder tasks with easier ones.
It all sounds perfectly reasonable.
Until you’re staring at a basket of laundry wondering exactly how slowly you’re supposed to fold underwear.
I’ve tried systems.
At one point, I decided I would do one task every hour. That sounded sensible until the chores started accumulating faster than my hourly task allowance.
Then I tried working in 30-minute spurts.
Same problem.
Apparently, my laundry does not respect pacing guidelines.
These days, I’m fortunate enough to have an amazing person who cleans my house and someone else who handles the yard. I am incredibly grateful for both because I’ve finally accepted that there are things I simply cannot physically maintain on my own anymore.
But help costs money. And in this economy, outsourcing the things your body won’t let you do adds up quickly.
So I’m still trying to figure this out.
How do I maintain some independence without constantly pushing myself into a crash? How do I decide what deserves today’s limited supply of energy? And how do I stop measuring a successful day by how many things I crossed off a list?
Because apparently pacing isn’t just about learning how to do less.
For someone like me, it may be about learning that I don’t have to finish everything just because I started it.
And that is going to take some practice.
In the meantime, the laundry is still in the dryer.
But I’m clean.
Today, I’m calling that a win.
And my sweet Jaxson is very sorry.
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