Everything Isn’t an Emergency

I’d still prefer you hurry.

My nervous system has always had trouble distinguishing a crisis from a minor inconvenience.

I’ve lost multiple phones and remained calm. But put me in the only open checkout line at CVS and I’ll lose my fucking mind.

I was wired for urgency. That’s how things got done.

By the time I walk through the front door, my shoes are untied and I’ve read through my mail, all to save myself a whole thirty seconds.

Once something landed on my plate, it became the only thing that existed. Emails were answered within seconds. Deadlines were finished early. In school, I’d finish an entire semester’s coursework months before it was due.

I could be mid-conversation, remember I had an email to answer, and spend the rest of it impatiently waiting for it to end so I could respond, “Sounds good.”

I couldn’t relax until my to-do list was done, but the second it was, I’d add something new.

For years, it looked like competence. Endless energy was my superpower. I could work all day, run ten errands, answer everyone, and still find something else to do.

Then it was as if my brain installed an update overnight and reset every setting I’d relied on for decades. I guess you can only hit “Remind Me Later” so many times before the whole system crashes.

It wasn’t one catastrophic event. It was years of stress, loss, pressure, managing everyone else’s expectations, and choosing immediate relief over the changes I knew I needed to make.

The only way to keep going was to stop.

Once I did, I started paying attention to what all that energy actually felt like in my body. Some of it was anxiety, and urgency gave it somewhere to go.

Answering every email and text the second it came in gave me immediate relief, but it also taught people I was always available. Everyone else’s urgency became my urgency. People got used to that version of me. Eventually, I did too.

Changing that meant occasionally disappointing people. I started setting boundaries, which feels a lot like being an asshole at first. The feeling passes. The benefits tend to stick around.

Undoing decades of wiring takes patience. I’d just prefer to be done already.

Unfortunately, life keeps picking the most inconvenient times to make me practice.

Yesterday, I had 500 errands to run, and before I could get to any of them, my mom’s car died. Range Rovers are impressively unreliable. It’s like someone looked at my schedule and thought, “You know what this day needs? 501 things.”

The old me would’ve called my mom to tell her the car was a piece of shit while explaining to AAA that they’d hired the slowest mechanic in North America.

I try not to do that anymore. Not everyone needs to experience my sense of urgency. Just a lucky few.

Instead, I waited. First on hold with AAA. Then for the tow truck. Then in 405 traffic, fantasizing about getting out of my car and walking to the front of the traffic jam just to find out what the fuck everyone was waiting for.

A lot of waiting for someone who hates waiting. I survived.

Urgency made me productive. It also made me think less, listen less, and miss more. Everyone was either driving too slow, talking too slow, standing exactly where I needed to be, or calling me at the worst possible time.

I rarely thought twice before making a decision. Just forty-eight times afterward.

Everything felt urgent. Almost none of it was. Some things just take longer than I’d like.

I’ve learned that slowing down isn’t failure. It’s how I stay sane.

I’m learning to adapt to who I am today instead of trying to keep up with who I was yesterday.

I stopped measuring my worth by how much I accomplished. Sometimes peace is the accomplishment.

I stopped treating joy like something I have to earn after every task is finished. There will always be something to do.

I’ve accepted that having boundaries means some people will think I’m an asshole.

They’ll recover.