Permission to Rest

With racing thoughts denying me sleep, it took the kindness of a close confidant to see with clarity what I was experiencing when I could not see it myself. It's Wednesday, August 28th, 2024. I log onto the Teams meeting to meet with my supervisor, Chris Edwards, the Director of Mission Advancement for SupportWorks Housing.

I dive into explaining my grand vision for how SupportWorks Housing approaches grants, speaking quickly and passionately. Chris listens intently, then gently interrupts, concern in his voice. “Caitlin, are you okay?” “No,” I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them. I’m not okay. I’m exhausted from constantly advocating for others in need, when I’m the one who’s in need. I’m the one who needs help.” Chris pauses, then says something that surprises me: “I give you permission to give yourself permission to rest.” His words hit me hard, and then he adds, “Take the next two days off, enjoy an extended Labor Day weekend, and we’ll check in after the holiday.” “Thank you, Chris,” I manage, my voice catching as I try to hold back tears.

The Teams meeting ends. I collapse in exhaustion on the sofa, fading into fitful sleep. I wake nearly two hours later.  Dazed, I question what it means to rest. Lying around binge watching tv is not going to help me process through the pent-up PTSD that has been denying me sleep for over a week. Instinctively, I jump into my car and drive to a place that brings me serenity—Pony Pasture. Walking alongside the riverbed in the lush green woods, I take slow, deep breaths, and pull out my tape recorder. I tell my story to the person I fear the most about having a conversation with—myself.

I speak with vulnerable boldness, describing every intimate detail of the day I wake up from the darkness when I realize I’m pregnant at 7 months. I verbally examine the emotional trauma of my car crash at nine months pregnant and emergency c-section—both on the day of my second wedding anniversary. At the end of the walk, I’m emotionally raw.  I reorient myself to reality and head off to pick up my son from school. We engage in our usual evening routine, complete with bargaining with him to eat his dinner, as if I’m a hostage negotiator.  

Rowan carefully curates the perfect selection of bedtime stories. I, however, am running on fumes. After helping him dress in his Sonic the Hedgehog pajamas, I collapse on the floor. “Buddy, mommy’s exhausted; I’ll read to you, but I’m not getting up from the floor,” I say with a tinge of whininess. Undeterred, Rowan lies down on the soft, sonic blue rug next to me. We dive into the adventures of Biscuit, the golden retriever puppy, growing up on a farm. Fighting to keep my eyes open, I attempt to persuade him to go to bed. “One more story, Mommy,” he pleads. I cannot deny his insatiable desire to read, so I reply, “okay, just one more book.”

He hands me the easy reader, Splat the Cat, and the Duck with No Quack. We open the book and follow Splat on his bike ride to school, where he encounters a silent duck in the road. “A duck lacking in quacking,” says Splat, “that’s not right.” He takes the duck to his teacher, Mrs. Wimpydimple, who performs various tests. She points to an eye chart, but the duck only looks at it with quiet sadness. Mrs. Wimpydimple gives the duck her glasses, and he starts reading aloud until he proudly erupts, “Quack, quack, QUACK!” I read the final line, “Duck’s quack was back and that was that.” I close the book, awestruck.

I tuck Rowan into bed, kiss him goodnight, and shut his door behind me. I crumple to the floor under the weight of the realization that I am the duck with no quack. I am a writer who does not write. I am a storyteller who does not share stories. I call my parents and cry, “Mom, Dad, I’m not okay; but I’m okay with not being okay.”  By uttering those decisively honest words, I give myself what I have yearned for over a decade—the permission to rest.

The extended Labor Day weekend turns into two weeks of mental health leave. I devise my own treatment plan through collaborating with my therapist, primary care provider, and connecting with an empathetic psychiatrist. In this period of rest, through writing, I recognize that my saving grace is my nearly three years of sobriety, which prevents me from spiraling into an extended manic episode. And thanks to a simple, yet profound, children’s book, I’m able to see myself—and the world—with glasses that reveal the beauty of brutal honesty where there is no shame in accepting my humanity.