Well, here I sit at my desk like some wounded warrior, nursing the aftermath of what the doctor cheerfully called a “minor procedure.” Minor to him, maybe. He wasn’t the one who had to explain to this body that it needed to cooperate with his arbitrary schedule.
Used to be, I could bounce back from anything faster than a rubber ball on concrete. Sick? Just load up on coffee and keep moving. Injured? Walk it off, son. My body was like that reliable old pickup truck that started every morning no matter how much you abused it.
I took that loyalty for granted.
But somewhere along the way, my body decided it was tired of being the accommodating type. Now when I try to jump back into life at full throttle, it stages a rebellion that would make a teenager proud.
“Oh, you want to go back to work tomorrow? That’s cute. How about we extend this recovery another few days?”
I used to think pushing through sickness was heroic. There I’d be, making lunches with a 102-degree fever like some kind of parenting martyr.
“Look at me,” I’d think, “still answering emails from urgent care!” What I didn’t realize was that I was teaching my kids the worst possible lesson: that your worth is measured by how much you can endure, not how well you can take care of yourself.
Turns out, our children are taking notes on everything we do, especially the stuff we think they’re not paying attention to. When we drag ourselves around half-dead, we’re not showing them strength. We’re showing them that rest is for quitters and self-care is selfish.
New Goal: Let’s not let that be my legacy. I don’t want that to be what I leave behind.
Empty Your Cup... 