Little let downs are not something to shout about. Or moan or howl or wail about. Why – when you’ve been made redundant and you’re getting divorced and you, over there, can’t get pregnant – would I even mention the pathetic stabbing I feel behind my ribs? The dragging down of spirit.
How can I – when you are having to sell your house and your father has cancer and your Crohn’s disease is making life really heavy – dare to even acknowledge the faint bleakness that is cloaking my day, the grief, triggered by… an unreturned text or a dismissive comment or just by being passed over? The blankness activated by a feeling of invisibility and failure as a result of something as petty as the fact that I can’t get dressed because my body has gone all wrong or someone has told me that I have disappointed them or my mother hates my haircut. Again.
Bigger picture, right? Not join the dots. No, no, no, that is not rising above; that is sinking below and gasping for breath. The thing about mini let downs is that they feel so shameful. These tiny slights should glance off our backs but they sting and bruise and prove the point that it wasn’t meant to turn out like this.
So let’s forgive ourselves for caring. Caring is better than denying. Recognising has more value than ignoring. And maybe, if you dare, tell someone who’ll get it. Because that’s a balm for the soul. Just “I get it” translates as this is human and this is life. Feel it. Don’t sweat it. Onwards and sideways…