Catching Your Breath

by Steve Austin

  My grandparents had an old mutt named Dudley who was part of the family. One afternoon, Dudley didn’t come home, but that was nothing to worry about. He was a country dog and roamed free, sometimes following my cousin and I around the property, sometimes off hunting rabbits or female dogs in heat.

  But he didn’t come home that night.

  Or the next night.

  Or the next day.

  A couple of days was cause to worry, even for a free-range mutt like Dudley. Finally, it hit Boss: “Stevie and Candy were down there in those damn cars...” (BTW, don’t go gettin’ too big for your britches and think you can call me Stevie. Boss and Nanny are the only ones to call me that.) He headed down by the rickety barn and started searching his fleet of rust-buckets. Sure enough, he found Dudley dehydrated and half-dead in the backseat of one of those Celicas.

  The poor mutt must have jumped in when we’d left the door open; we never had a clue he was in there. Thankfully, it wasn’t the middle of the Alabama summer and the windows were pretty much always cracked. Oh, and there were those dehydrated apples in the back window for him to survive on. That’s probably what saved his little cur-dog life. Boss and Nanny nursed poor old Dudley back to health and renamed him Lazarus. But he was never quite right after that. Okay, they didn’t really rename him Lazarus, but wouldn’t that be awesome?!

  Most people haven’t accidentally left an innocent dog in a broken-down car that smells like apples. But I wonder how many folks act like they’ve reached junker-status and parked themselves near the barn, door hinges stuck and paint fading fast? See, we require regular maintenance to run efficiently, too. We have to charge the battery, fill the gas tank, and change the oil. Otherwise, our souls become rusted shut, our brains struggle to operate through a fog of exhaustion, our relationships suffer, and our bodies fall into disrepair. Now that we’ve slowed down and caught our breath, cultivating a lifestyle of self-care is the best way to stay on the path from chaos to calm.

  Take Care

  I love to write letters. Sure, email is more efficient, but taking the time to craft a handwritten note and send it to someone I care about adds an exceptional touch. Often, when I pen a letter, I end it with two words: take care. I also use those words at the end of a conversation with clients or friends, or even someone I’ve chatted with casually in the hallway at work. For a lot of us, it’s just something we say instead of “sincerely” at the end of the letter or “goodbye” at the end of a conversation.

  Take care.

  Take good care of yourself.

  But those words communicate something deeper, something more powerful. After all, we take great care of the things that matter to us. Our children. Our homes. Our relationships. The antique car we inherited (unless you’re Boss or Nanny). As kids, we took care of special dolls or baseball card collections. We place care-ful attention on the things we value.

  But what about our lives?

  John Wesley famously asked the question, “How is it with your soul?” We already talked about everyday spirituality, so you know I’m not talking about going to church. But do you read books or listen to lectures/podcasts that feed your soul? Do you take walks in nature to remind yourself that there is more to this life than the nine-to-five hustle and bustle? Do you spend time in silence or in laughter or whatever it is you need? In the day-to-day, how do you take care of your soul?

  You Can’t Do It All

  In one grief-stricken weekend in my hometown, I heard of two deaths by suicide and two others longing to die. Friday morning, news broke of an 8th-grade girl in our town who died by suicide. And within twenty-four hours, I received calls from two friends dealing with suicidal thoughts. Then, I got the terrible call from a friend who lost a brother to suicide. Yes, all in one tragic weekend.

  What do we do when our hearts are tearing in multiple directions, and we want to help but are being triggered at the same time? What do I do in that situation, where people look to me as an expert on mental health because I share my story, but sometimes hearing about others’ struggles is too much for me? What do we do when life feels too heavy?

  We have to take care of ourselves first.

  I know, it sounds selfish, right? I wanted to help in each situation. I wanted to comfort my friend who had just lost her brother; after all, I know what it’s like to lose a beloved family member to suicide. I wanted to reach out and “fix” things for my friends who were struggling hardcore, because I am intimately acquainted with those kinds of thoughts. And I wanted to be a beacon of hope for our community in the wake of this young girl’s death.

  But I couldn’t fix any of this. A few years ago, I would have stretched myself beyond any healthy or wise limits and tried to be in four places at once. And my family and my mental health would have suffered as a result. These days, I’m much more aware of healthy and wise limits. So I did my very best to help where I could. I tried to offer hope and tell the truth, but also set some solid boundaries. It doesn’t mean I didn’t care—on the contrary, I feel awful when I can’t fix it for other people. My heart aches and I battle serious guilt. But I’ve learned I can’t let those feelings make my decisions. I’m human, too.

  Self-Care Saves Lives

  That tragic weekend, even as I helped where I could, I had to be extra-diligent about self-care. If you’re not familiar with the term, self-care means creating a lifestyle that puts your sense of wholeness (mental/physical/spiritual/social) above everything else. It means you are intentional about making good choices for every aspect of your health.

  It means I can’t just ignore my pain or triggers and hope for the best. I cannot just keep up appearances. I cannot sweep things under the rug any longer. We’ve talked about a lot of these things in prior chapters, but this is where the rubber meets the road. This is where we put all those ideas and theories into practice.

  I’ve heard people balk at the suggestion of starting a self-care routine, going to counseling, or investing in a life coach. Sometimes, it’s because people view self-care as a selfish act. Especially if you’ve been around church leaders talking about “denying yourself” and only focusing on others, it can be tough to justify caring for yourself.

  But self-care is letting yourself off the hook and trusting that the world will continue to spin on its axis, even if you aren’t pushing. It’s just like what flight attendants tell us at the beginning of every flight: make sure to put your oxygen mask on before you assist anyone else. If you pass out because you can’t breathe, it will be impossible to take care of your kids, your commitments, or do the things you want to do.

  Another reason people resist starting serious self-care is because they feel guilty about investing in themselves. But the only way to get something new (read: better) out of life is to stop settling for the same old things. If you want your life to change, you have to take actionable steps to make that happen. And often, you have to connect with an expert who knows how to help.

  For you, that expert might be a nutritionist, life coach, or personal trainer. It could be a psychiatrist, counselor, or physical therapist. It might even be a professional organizer or a cleaning service to deep clean your house every few weeks. It doesn’t matter what that looks like: you’re worthy of investing in yourself.

  If you have ever felt hopeless or believed that all the bad things in your life are beyond redemption, self-care is for you. If you have ever felt unworthy of being loved or accepted, it’s time to create a self-care plan that works for you.

  Remember your three lists from a few chapters ago? Use them here; they will help you look at your life and see what needs to change. If there are things on your “have to” list that can occasionally be outsourced to give yourself a break, do it. If there are things on your “want to” list that seem incredibly refreshing to you, pull out your schedule and write in time for them.

  Self-care has saved my life and transformed me time and again.
From the silent retreat that helped heal the brokenness of my marriage to learning to create healthy boundaries with toxic friends and family members, many forms of self-care have been part of my journey into calm. Self-care is personal. That’s why it’s called self—it’s different for everyone. So what is it for you?

  Self-Care Is...

  Self-care helps you fight back against everything that pulls against your happiness, attention, and sense of self-worth. Self-care is giving yourself permission to say “no” to people, places, and things that make you feel unworthy or unsafe. Maybe it includes yoga, meditation, or exercise. For you, it might be centering prayers. For someone else, it could be massage therapy. (I think I need to add that to my self-care routine a little more often.)

  Self-care is a big fat “hell no” to shame and a resounding “hallelujah” to everything that makes you feel loved, happy, safe, healthy, whole, valuable, at peace, motivated, connected, accepted, and wanted. Is that a local book club? A running group? A weekly night at the movies with a few friends? Snuggles with your sweet kids, early in the morning? Turning your phone off and looking into your spouse’s eyes?

  Self-care can be hard things, too. Going to therapy is tough, but worth it. And self-care might feel like walking into dilapidated rooms that house memories of all the bad things that have happened to you. It might hurt, but it empowers you to walk away from the pain and disappointment, to say goodbye to the haters and those who have hurt you the worst. Self-care gives you that little extra push to hold your head high, middle finger saluting the chaos, as you find more and more peace.

  Self-Care & a Second Chance

  It was 1:34 a.m. and I was awake with allergies. It was nothing new; itchy eyes, a scratchy throat, and a stuffy nose had plagued me for weeks. This particular night, I’d had enough. I headed to the kitchen for a glass of cold water and some help getting back to sleep. I knew the tiny allergy pill would help me get some rest and relief from my symptoms, so I slid my thumb under the arrow on the cap and popped open the bottle. As I tipped it over my palm, pink and white capsules spilled into my hand.

  Then it happened. It was just a flash—a blink—and the image was gone. Still, it was enough to rattle me. For the first time in months, I was back in the hotel where I nearly died. I mean, my body was safely in my kitchen while my family slept upstairs. But my mind, my emotions, and my fight, flight, or freeze response were back inside that dreadful and desperate night.

  During flashbacks, most people feel disconnected from themselves. It’s hard to explain, but it might feel sort of like my head is separated from my body. Some people describe it as feeling lightheaded or dizzy or far away. That night, I shook my head to try to bring reality back into focus. I lost my footing, barely catching myself on the kitchen island before I hit the floor.

  For half an hour, I reeled from the glimpse back into the night when my life hung in the balance. I saw the dingy hotel carpet, the bed behind me, the Bible on the pillow. I smelled the hot tea I used to mix my poison and drink it down. I felt the queasiness and the anxious rush to just get it over with.

  What does self-care look like when you’re still dealing with the aftermath of a crisis? What do you do when flashbacks still come, more stubbornly than you ever imagined? How do you handle the nightmares and heartache when you feel like you should be over it after all these years? Or the way you feel gutted every time you drop your kids off to visit their dad who left you for another woman? The grief that threatens to choke you when you’re about to call that loved one to tell them about something funny and you realize you can’t, because they’re gone?

  None of it is rational or reasonable. It’s unfair and horrible. Maybe you’re clinging to the voicemails you’ve saved, just to hear that loved one’s voice, like I am since Boss died.

  The circle of life sucks, no matter what Disney wants you to believe. Bite me, Simba. It is no fun to say goodbye to the ones we love dearly. I wanted my granddad to be free of his suffering. But I sure as hell would have preferred for him to get out of that damn hospital bed and live forever. I guess it’s that way with all our heroes.

  But he didn’t get out of that hospital bed. He didn’t live forever. And each time I drive up that long dirt road to visit Nanny, my heart breaks. Tears splash down my shirt as I ease down the driveway. I feel like the heavens should cry too, but they never seem to get the memo.

  There are all sorts of hurts and I’ve shared plenty with you already. But this is the most profound pain I’ve felt in a long time. Chronic heartache. This is a loss that will never be recovered—a hole that cannot be filled. A dark cloud that rarely seems to lift.

  When I think about self-care, I think about one of the many lessons the old newspaperman taught me when I was first getting into photography. He loved closeups. Whether I showed him a photograph of a face or a fencepost, it was never quite close enough to his liking. He always saw little distractions that could be cropped from the picture. Whether he was acting as a photographer, a writer, or a family man, Boss always showed me how to keep the main thing in focus.

  He’d say, “Stevie, let’s get it right down where the goats can eat it.” He taught me to say what I mean. He taught me to get right down to what is most important, “down where the goats can eat it,” and focus on that. Even in my heartache, I can hear this mentor of mine, this giant of my childhood, urging me to take care of myself. To keep what matters in focus.

  I hear Boss’s voice when I’m aching. He reminds me that, once the shock of a flashback or a wave of grief wears off and I realize what’s happening, I have to acknowledge it before I can move on. I hold on through the roller coaster of memories and emotions, but I have to look at what’s important and do what I can to process what has happened. For me, that means writing about it, just like Boss would have, because writing is a huge part of my self-care. But that will look different for you.

  No two aches are the same. Whether it’s grief, a flashback, a panic attack, or something else entirely, we can’t avoid the hurt that leaves us reeling. But in those moments, the best thing we can do is breathe deep, grab the nearest seat (even if it’s the floor) and tell ourselves we’re okay. Because we are okay. We’re just living through the hard stuff of life and need a little extra care.

  Self-care during grief or healing from trauma seems complicated, but it’s no different than any other time. Be gentle with yourself. Get help when you need it. Be honest about what you really need to do and give yourself lots and lots of grace.

  We need to give ourselves time and space to process what has happened, whether it’s losing a friendship or job or anything else. This way, we learn to handle the waves of pain and grief a little better each time they come up. The truth is, I am not the same desperate guy who tried to die by suicide in a hotel room kitchenette. I’m not the same guy I was a few months ago, before Boss died. I still hurt. I still miss him. I still get anxious sometimes. But I’m still learning to treat myself well. I’m still learning to take care of myself the way I would take care of those I love: with compassion and grace.

  Life is Hard

  My 5th-grade teacher, Terri Nobles, had a 2x4 in our classroom with the words “BOARD OF EDUCATION” written in black permanent marker. And if you failed to heed her warnings...no, she wouldn’t whack you with it. (I know I grew up in the Alabama countryside, but we weren’t that backwards!) Anyway, if you got in trouble, you’d find yourself at a picnic table during recess with that 2x4 and a piece of sandpaper, trying to get rid of the black permanent marker. It’s shocking how deep permanent marker can sink into old pine.

  You’ve probably guessed I spent my fair share of recesses with Mrs. Nobles hovering over me. I can still see her grin and hear her cackling in that thick-as-molasses Southern drawl.

  “Steve Austin!” she’d say, “Life is hard, and then you die.” (For those of you who haven’t heard a true country drawl, she’d draw the word “life” out int
o about seven syllables. It was something like, “Laaaaaaaf is haarrd, an’ then y’daaaaah.”)

  You laugh—or maybe you cringe at that story—but the principle isn’t necessarily wrong. Growing up in Prosperity Gospel churches, it seemed most folks believed that the Christian life meant the end of suffering, pain, and hard times. We pictured God as some sort of cosmic Santa Claus, handing out health, wealth, and happiness to all the good little kids. But life just doesn’t work that way, no matter how religious you are.

  In this world, we are going to suffer. It’s an unfortunate side effect of life. Terri Nobles is standing there, leaning over the picnic table of your life, saying, “Life is hard, and then you die.” We want to name it and claim it, believe it and receive it, blab it and grab it. We think those truth-tellers are discouraging and depressing, but it doesn’t have to be that way. After all, Jesus showed up on the scene and echoes the cry of all the realists: “In this world, you will have trouble” (John 16:33, NIV). He hands us the BOARD OF EDUCATION, while everybody else is playing, and whispers, “Life is hard...”

  What if we reject all that name-it-and-claim-it crap and join Jesus and Terri Nobles? See, when we recognize that life is hard, we don’t let any of those TV preachers tell us otherwise and shame us into hiding our pain. We refuse to shrink back from caring for ourselves and giving grace to others when we make peace with the fact that life is uncertain, unfair, and unpredictable.

  “Life is suffering,” said the Buddha, and Jesus responded, “Amen.”

  But that’s not all they said. Buddha talked a whole lot about compassion. Jesus often talked about love and living something he called “abundant life.” We can’t truly experience any of those good things if we don’t let ourselves feel and process the tough stuff, then make good self-care choices.