Why did I let this happen again? After school drop-offs, I had three glorious hours to myself, but I squandered my alone time on chores.

As I was choosing meals for next week, adding ingredients to the shopping list, searching for new literary magazines with open poetry submissions, responding to school-related emails, fixing technical issues for my friends' website, and scheduling flu shots and annual physicals, I kept promising myself that I would set aside 15 minutes to rest and clear my mind.

That's all—just 15 minutes out of 3 hours to refill my own cup. And yet I kept going. I became the toy robot that once wound up and left alone keeps running into the wall until I use up every last drop of energy or until my alone time concludes, whichever comes first.

The adrenaline rush crashed, and so had my mood.

Even as I watched the minutes tick down until preschool pickup time, the adrenaline rush perpetuated my urgency to finish the next task:

• 30 minutes: I can do this! I have plenty of time to finish sending this email.
• 20 minutes: If I research this last lit mag, I'll sill have 5 minutes to savor this peaceful silence.
• 10 minutes: Okay, I'm stopping now. Let me just leave notes so I'll remember where I left off.
• 5 minutes: Oh, no. I have to pee!
• Times up: Nooooooooo! What have I done!?!? Why can't preschool last another hour? (As if another hour wouldn't have concluded the same way?)

Granted, I had a sense of accomplishment: I found a new location that I want to submit my poetry, my husband and I finally have appointments for our first physical in more than 2 years, I ate lunch sitting down, and I drink my coffee hot. All wins.

But as I washed my hands, dumped my purse strap over my shoulder, slipped on my flats, and ran out the door, my mind thought only about all the next to-dos. The adrenaline rush crashed, and so had my mood.

Once I picked up my kiddo, I already knew all I'd do for the rest of the day. And none of those moments included time for myself. Now, one might say having 3 hours of quiet should count as self-care, but as I learned from Lindsey Weigle, author of Enough Already, self-care isn't an activity or amount of time; it's a state of mind. And nothing about my state of mind during the last 3 hours involved hushing the din of to-dos and turning inward.

Self-care isn't an activity or amount of time; it's a state of mind.

But as I walked out my front door, slanted beams of light draped over my shoulder like a soft blanket. Each step slowed until I stopped just beside my car. I closed my eyes and imagined my toes and heels growing roots that stretched and burrowed and wiggled their way deep into the warm soil.

Behind my eyelids, shades of burnt orange dissolved into vibrant creamsicle, then delicious burgundy, as the clouds dragged their shadows across the world. The wind rushed through the trees, brushing their pine needles like hair. The crinkling leaves told me a story that danced and twirled around me.

When I opened my eyes again, I was a different person. I had stilled myself so much that I could feel the world spinning on its axis. I had become a figurine inside an autumn-themed water globe. Even my bones felt warm.

I inhaled autumn, perfumed with the scent of crisp dried leaves. All tension in my body liquified like melted butter, relaxing my shoulders, unfurrowing my brow, and unclenching my jaw.

When I finally opened my car door, a carefree whimsical daydream of a smile bloomed across my face.

And moments later, as my preschooler emerged from the building—a tumble of curls and vivacious blue eyes and oversized backpack—I scooped him up in a fervent hug. He giggled and squeezed me too, as much as his pudgy little arms could muster. And then we were on our way.

But whenever I reread this story, I relive that moment and remember this: When I allow myself to become so still that I can feel myself sinking into a pocket in time, it’s breathtaking how deeply I feel alive.

To my readers:

How do you stop the constant need to keep going? How do shed stress and tension?

Featured photo by Erin P.T. Canning