I have an activity hangover today. Earlier this week, my gastroparesis flared more intensely than it has in a long time (the improvement was a good thing, but it also lulled me into a false sense of security), so I was already down a few spoons for the week. Then yesterday evening I went to a book signing, one that I’d been eagerly anticipating for several weeks. Fortunately, my partner was willing to drive. He picked me up at work, and then it took us about 45 minutes to get to the event, which we’d anticipated. What came as a surprise was how long we had to sit and wait after that. It started at 7 p.m., so I thought we’d be done by 8:30 or 9. By 9, I had started to think about leaving. My chair had no arms to lean on for support and very little padding. It felt like my nerves were being crushed between metal and bone. By 10, I really wanted to leave. Even though I was exhausted, I had to get up and walk around to relieve the pain. But I kept telling myself that leaving without getting what we came for would be worse than toughing it out. When it was finally our turn with the author, even though we got her autograph and a photo op, I could think of nothing clever or meaningful to say. (I hope I thanked her!) After that, we left—at 11.

Measuring spoons

On the way home, my physical pain improved somewhat, thanks to the padded seats in the car, but I couldn’t shake an uneasy sadness. As my partner, who is usually in bed by 10, sped silently up I-5 (I assume he was trying to beat the laws of physics through sheer force of will), I searched for the source. Then it hit me.

“Uh, I don’t know how to say this to make it seem any better…” I trailed off.

“Just say it,” he said, not unkindly but with a sigh.

“I think it wasn’t worth it. And I think it was only worth it to you because you knew how much I wanted it. So now I feel doubly bad. I really want to measure my spoons better before I suggest another event for us.”

I don’t remember exactly what he said—something about how it’s true but it’s OK—that I couldn’t have known how things would go. He’s always understanding and reassuring, and I appreciate it. I still feel guilty sometimes.

I know that I shouldn’t, though. Because how do you measure accurately when the recipe is different every time and no one tells you how many spoons you’ll need until you’ve run out? Mise en place is damn near impossible when you live with a chronic illness (or two or three or…). So pretty much all I’ve done today is shower, eat, and watch TV (my partner is a therapist too, and he’d never seen Frasier, so we have a lot of bingeing ahead of us!). While I’m always saying things like “your worth is not determined by your productivity” and “when your body tells you to rest, listen” to my clients, we all know it’s a lot harder to believe those things about yourself. If you’re struggling with that right now, I hope it helps to know that therapists do too. And though it’s still easier said than done, the best thing for all of us is self-compassion.

Progress, not perfection

Self-compassion says “I didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped for, but that’s OK because I’m human.” It says “I wish I’d planned better and avoided the pain and inconvenience, but there’s no way I could have known exactly what was going to happen.” Self-compassion allows us to treat ourselves the way we would treat the person we love most in the whole world. Who knows? With enough practice, the person you love most might just be yourself. For me, some days it’s true and some days it isn’t—and that’s OK, because I’m allowed to be a work in progress. You are allowed too.

In closing, I think it’s important to note that I did accomplish something else today: I wrote this blog post. I hope reading it made you feel less alone. But even if no one ever reads it or finds it helpful, I’m still going to be kind to myself about it. And I’m going to have some ice cream. How will you practice self-compassion and self-care today?

Christy Olson, MSW, LICSW, is a therapist who specializes in supporting clients who live with chronic illness and chronic pain. Learn how to become a client by clicking here.