When peace eludes you
Peace is something you cultivate even when your life feels out of control.
Everything can be falling apart around you, and you can still land softly somewhere. Treat your heart as it is —a tender organ, as malleable as a pillow. Be kind to what it feels and needs from you. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not. You don’t have to pull yourself up alone. You don’t even really have to do anything when you can barely function.
I am looking outside my bedroom window. It is another gray winter day, the tenth or maybe fourteenth consecutive day without sunshine here in northern Indiana. (I lost count after a while.) The forecast predicted precipitation of some sort, likely rain, but it’s actually giant, fluffy snowflakes I see —just like the ones we called lake effect snow when we lived closer to Lake Michigan years ago.
There’s nothing spectacular about today, except that I awoke dizzy, lightheaded, nauseated, and very, very weak. My heart has been racing off and on, and I’ve tried to tend to these symptoms, which used to plague me more frequently. I figure if I stay hydrated, rest as much as possible, and maybe take a nap, I’ll feel better physically.
What’s strange is that, after I checked Dr. Google for an explanation of my physical state, the top result happened to be anxiety or panic attack. Yeah, I haven’t had one of those in a while, either. In fact, life has (for the most part) gradually improved. If we’re looking at a graph, the slope would be jagged but moving in an upward trajectory.
Yet the last several weeks have been trying. It’s hard to explain why. I told Ben yesterday that any attempt at articulating what an ordinary day is like for me tends to fall flat, unless I am speaking with another mom who is raising more than two kids, and at least one of them has been diagnosed with a complicated medical condition. “Let’s say you’re a mechanic, and you speak the language of vehicles, but most of the time you are trying to explain to people who have zero knowledge or experience or understanding of automechanics what you do and how you do it. That’s what it’s like living day to day with Sarah’s multiple needs, in addition to raising young children who haven’t learned how to self-regulate yet.”
Ben seemed to grasp what I was feebly trying to say, though again, I missed the crux of it all, which is this: When you are a woman who is also a mom and you have many children, some of whom have been diagnosed with learning disabilities or neurodiverse conditions (in our house it’s OCD, ADD/ADHD, and autism), you just can’t figure out how to settle your mind or your heart. Rarely, if ever. You’re always waiting for the alarm to go off, in which someone is shouting and you have to determine whether there’s a true crisis or just a scuffle between two siblings going on.
The grappling for inner peace simply doesn’t end.
The way I picture it today, with the juxtaposition of a soft snowfall and my worsening symptoms of anxiety, is the way I imagine my life most days: that there are two cliffs side by side, one representing life as it is (irrationality, volatility, and chaos) and the other representing the life I am trying to attain (sanity, stability, and harmony). There is a crevice between the two cliffs, which appear to have at one time been conjoined. Maybe it’s a fault line, and an ancient earthquake happened to sever the terrain into two distinct geographical markers. Metaphorically, I can make these mean anything I want to, and this is how I want to pretend the story goes.
What I see is myself, though, dangling on the edge of the cliff that is My Current Life. I am hanging on with one hand, and there is no one present who can lift me up or bring me back to solid ground. The abyss below me is so steep that I don’t know what awaits me there, should I fall. And the space between where I am and the cliff that is The Life I Want is so narrow that sometimes I think I just might be able to clutch the ledge of it with my free hand.
But sometimes I also think I’m only one event away from losing my grasp altogether and tumbling into whatever lies below me. And I don’t know which would be better —to surrender to the weakness of my mind and body, as I fear I must do today; or to fight another battle and pull myself up with whatever paltry amount of strength remains in me, which is the more prominent aspect of myself.
There is snow, and there is sickness. The point is that, like a delicate snowflake, peace is not something I can hold, but it is instead a way of being to which I can aspire, regardless of my external circumstances. There are days when my mind or my body wear out to the point where I have no option but to nurture them at the most basic levels. And there are days when my resolve to overcome the tension is in abundant supply. Either way, I can tell myself that peace is impossible to achieve, or that it is already here.
Another point: I can’t wait for silence or perfect order or children who are calm and collected in order to become a peaceful person, in order to live more peacefully. The reason is that it may not happen, or it may not happen for many, many years. And I don’t want to squander the time I am given today —now —by twiddling my thumbs and hoping for some lofty, unreasonable expectation to come to fruition.
Here’s the reality of life for most of us: It’s hard. And it’s gotten harder these past few years. I can pinpoint to the day when my life became unmanageable: March 13, 2020. Ben and I returned home from the hospital with our fifth baby (Auggie, who is now nearly four), and hour by hour we learned that life as we knew it was shutting down indefinitely. Businesses. Major league sports. Disney World. Public transportation. Schools.
Sarah came home from school and did not go back for almost six months, so I was home in lockdown with a prepubescent, homeschooled daughter who’d just been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (Felicity); another daughter with special needs whose attention span would not withstand e-learning (Sarah); a preschooler who needed to be constantly occupied lest she get into trouble (Veronica); and two infants, including a newborn (Joey and Auggie, respectively). I had zero access to support, not my housekeeper or babysitter or my parents, because no one could go in or out for a minimum of two weeks. And, as we all remember, it ended up being a lot longer than that.
You have your own story. Maybe life isn’t quite so strange for you, or maybe it is even weirder than mine, even harder. I’ve stopped comparing my struggles with those of other people’s, because I learned during the COVID-19 quarantine that every human was experiencing a collective trauma of some sort, something I still haven’t fully been able to identify.
My inner peace at that time came in the following forms: hot herbal tea (today it’s peppermint; and did you know that there are studies that show that sipping a hot drink literally warms the heart to soften it emotionally?), solitary walks through our neighborhood park, reading a classic book, journaling, and napping.
Some people might label these as “self care,” but I don’t, because they are basic ways that every human needs in order to cultivate a sense of calm when life feels out of control. My daily walks in 2020 were surreal, a mixture of terror at how the world was being shaped by a global pandemic but also relief that the same oak tree I’d passed every day for years remained standing and produced fresh leaves in the spring, like it always did. Today, they are just as necessary to my survival as they were four years ago.
We have to find some semblance of permanence when we are losing a grip on things, when life is spinning too quickly and we can’t control where we’re going or how and when we’re going to get there. What reminded me then that life still carried on was observing the cyclic changes in nature, from spring to summer especially, and how the flowers still bloomed and the robins still laid their baby blue eggs and the squirrels still romped and frolicked.
Find something that grounds you if you want to cultivate peace in your life. You will still (mostly) convince yourself that it is elusive, a futile effort at chasing a specter that disintegrates every time you come close to catching it. Peace is something you have to foster. It’s not a given. It’s not some abstract, nebulous philosophy, like working for a better, saner world.
Everything can be falling apart around you, and you can still land softly somewhere. Treat your heart as it is —a tender organ, as malleable as a pillow. Be kind to what it feels and needs from you. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not. You don’t have to pull yourself up alone. You don’t even really have to do anything when you can barely function.
Survival is our best some days. When we return to the foundation of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs1, it feels indulgent or lazy, because we’re conditioned to be in constant motion, fully competent and capable, and productive. But asking yourself, Do I need a drink of water or maybe a short nap right now is the way you find yourself winding back to peace.
Someday, when you are adequately hydrated and fully rested, you can move to asking yourself about the security of your job or finances or housing. And when those are established well enough, then you can work on becoming a better friend/partner/daughter.
You might be dangling between the cliff of survival and the cliff of self-actualization, like I am most of the time. Sometimes you will feel so close to the flourishing that produces a life well lived —a harmonious, creative, meaningful, and connected life —but it’s okay if you slip back into needing to nourish yourself with food and sleep. I’ll tell you the truth: You will return to the basics time and again, and it will feel like you’ve failed. You will grow discouraged at times. But our human limitations are meant to center us on two things: humility and honesty.
When you admit you cannot move through your daily life alone, you become both humble and honest.
Learn to love, to first love your sore heart and its exhaustion. Truly, when you have found a way to be gentle on yourself, it will generalize into compassion for others. These are the building blocks of peace. And a peaceful world cannot exist without first finding a peaceful you.
To view the full pyramid with explanation of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, visit https://www.simplypsychology.org/maslow.html
I started having anxiety and panic about 10 months after early retirement. I had completed my goal - getting fit, losing sixty pounds - then could not figure out what would come next. I sat on the sofa and thought about dying - would it be illness, alzheimers, heart attack? and saw the rest of my life as a downward slope to the end. I even disassociated one day. Quite frightening. My friends recommended lots of different self help books, but the one that helped the most was an old one by Dr. Claire Weekes. Learning how to stop my anxiety at first panic - face it, accept it, float and let time pass - before second panic revs up the what if, what if, what if thoughts - was tremendously helpful. Eckhart Tolle, as well. Great article, thank you!
Jeannie you are a total rockstar for making the time to write this amazing piece! In honour of IWD I salute you💕
I did not have 5 children with extensive needs during the lock down but I certainly remember how it felt trying to hold it together during the spin-cycle of parenting and living with very intense guys (my family) as a highly sensitive person.
It is THE hardest thing.
You are absolutely right that we must create our own pockets of peace and allow it to be enough for now. The tea, the shower, the walk, the writing…may it bolster you up until you can look back and realize you walked through the storm.
Thanks for this great essay!
You are exactly right that we must create our peace in