Curled up on the couch last week, I felt more relaxed than I had in a very long time. I had just returned from having a post-work drink with Doug and his coworker, had grilled up some burgers for dinner and was now ready to watch a movie. That may not sound like a big deal, but my life had gotten so hectic lately that such a simple thing seemed like an enormous treat.
The movie I chose to watch on Netflix was called The River Why. I read the novel years ago and loved it. Though the film wasn’t great, I still enjoyed it. Watching the characters on the screen, I noticed something. They were never running home to check email and weren’t glued to social media. Instead, the characters were shown reading or fishing in their free time or spending time quietly talking to each other. You know the sort of scenes–the ones where friends are shown sitting on a hillside overlooking a breathtaking view or out in a flower-filled meadow just talking. Nolstalgic? I suppose–but I can actually remember a time in my life not so long ago when moments like that were a reality. Days when I came home from work and Doug and I would take a quiet walk or I would sketch, play guitar or read in the evenings. Moments when I would spontaneously stop by my friend’s house after work to pull weeds in her garden and chat about happenings. Times when I didn’t have to plan dinner dates months in advance.
I want my life to return to that pace.
Recently Doug and I got into an argument when talking about upcoming plans for my birthday. He wanted to do something special with me and I was completely stressed out with a huge to-do list. I asked if we couldn’t postpone the birthday festivities for a future month when my schedule wasn’t so hectic. My suggestion didn’t go over too well with Doug and it shouldn’t have. Seriously? My life felt so busy that I didn’t want to take a couple of hours to celebrate my own birthday? This was a wake-up call that something was out of balance. Where was the Heidi who used to be so laid back and spontaneous?
After much reflection, I came to the conclusion that my transformation into a stressed-out and overwhelmed person occurred when I started Ostomy Outdoors. This wasn’t easy to admit to myself. Keeping this blog is one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. How could a project I love so much have such an adverse affect on my well-being?
I knew when I began blogging that writing posts, answering comments and making videos would would require a time commitment and I was excited to take this on. What I did not anticipate was all the side projects that would come with blogging. Things like being asked to write my story for other sites, providing feedback on IBD blogs, helping with research and all sorts of other requests. These were all such worthwhile things proposed by people and organizations that I greatly admired. Each one was an amazing opportunity to spread awareness and help others so I eagerly said yes to just about every proposal that came my way. It meant so much to me to be able to help so many people.
The problem is, the list of projects I could be involved with is endless. As soon as I wrap one thing up, another comes along. All these activities, even the small ones, require time to successfully carry out; yet time is a limited resource. The number of blog-related projects I have tried to take on is simply not sustainable for me; I am burnt-out, spread thin and exhausted. Also, these projects, combined with my regular blog posts tie me to the computer too much. I want to hear the sounds of birds on the trail, smell freshly baked goods in a cafe, or feel my head resting on my hubby’s shoulder–real tangible experiences that I can wrap my senses around. I don’t want to be fixed to a screen and keyboard living life through my computer. I need to give myself time and permission to step away from the online world sometimes.
I worked incredibly hard over the last couple of months to clear my plate of a huge backlog of projects that I had committed to, and I have no desire to go back for seconds. From now on, when I get asked to be involved in new blog-related ventures, I will be saying no. It isn’t that these projects and causes aren’t absolutely amazing and worthwhile to take part in. I simply must set boundaries for my role as a health activist in order to get my life back in balance. This feels selfish in a way, but it is absolutely necessary for my welfare.
To prepare for this transition, I have been reading a lot of articles about learning how to say no. One of the main points in many of these pieces is that when you do say no to one opportunity, you are opening up the time to say yes to another. So by saying no to additional blog-related projects, what am I saying yes to?
- quiet time with my hubby
- visits with family
- phone calls to Mom and Dad
- after-work drinks
- sketching excursions
- running with friends
- spontaneous weekend getaways
- pitching my tent for a campout
- moving over rock
- taking aim at a biathlon target
- tying and casting flies
- hand-writing letters to loved ones
- making waffles for breakfast
- nature journaling, block printing, and watercolor painting
- regular exercise and meditation
- playing my guitar and drumming
- reading books (I haven’t finished one in three years)
- being less burnt-out so I can do a better job at the things I can do to help others
What do these new priorities mean for Ostomy Outdoors? Interestingly the aspects of my blog that I love the most are the ones that I have had the least amount of time to do lately: writing posts, making videos, and helping people who are facing or recovering from ostomy surgery one-on-one through comments and emails. I plan to put a strong focus on these activities. I also remain committed to some of my other related writing projects such as my column in the United Ostomy Associations of America’s The Phoenix magazine. However, I will not be taking on much else. By setting new boundaries I hope to re-immerse myself in the parts of my life that have nothing to do with health activism.
Hopefully soon, my eyes will once again grace the pages of a good novel, my hand will bounce off my djembe, my pen will skirt across paper and maybe, just maybe, I will find myself sitting in a gorgeous meadow immersed in a meaningful conversation with a friend.