A few months ago, I had a panic attack. I paced back and forth, and wept and found myself pulled down like gravity had multiplied and my arms and head were too heavy. I wanted to make myself small, invisible, to protectively shrink away.

I remember my weeping being uncontrollable, desperately trying to be quiet and small. Gasping for breath and longing to disappear.

As I looked around my house, all I saw were projects and piles, and a to-do list I’d avoided bearing down on me. And so I ended up in a ball, on the floor, rocking and trying to be quiet. Wishing for help and a hug. Unsure of how to ask for it.

In the moment, I needed to tidy up to feel ok.

But more deeply, I needed to be ok with messy middle parts of life.

I don’t think I’m alone in my search for “arrival,” “finality,” or the yearning for settled peace. Even just typing those words brings up a deep and heavy longing.

The truth is, that will come in heaven. In the meantime, I need to learn to rest in the middle here.

I live in a home where messes are made and I am adored. We are repairing an old home. It is charming and becoming more so.

We are living in a blended family with an established father and son, and with a new stepmom on the scene. If you’re familiar with that dynamic, that means everyone here has a new role. New stepson. New husband to me. They’re new dog owners. We’re learning to share space (and a single small bathroom) and to trust each other with tender hearts which have been a bit bruised.

Not long after this panic attack, in the midst of a dark depression and feelings of hopelessness, I reached out to get help from a therapist.

I was sharing a situation outside of my home where I felt enormous personal responsibility and felt somewhat powerless all at once.
She gave me a powerful phrase to say aloud to myself, “This is hard. I’m doing the best I can. I’m new at this.”

New. I suppose that applies to every portion of my life these last couple years.

Newly single after a decade with one person.
New-to-me job after calling myself an educator for my adult life.
Newly, joyfully, dating a kind man.
Newly married.
New hopes and dreams taking root. New fears, too.
New resident of a new state.

Which was the way to the grocery store?
Why is it hard to find friends in a new state?

Am I incompetent? Am I unlikable? Am I ruining a happy home with my presence?

No.

“This is hard. I’m doing the best I can. I’m new at this.”

When the part of me who has never been a mother hears my stepson’s (totally normal) hard moments and wonders if I’m totally failing as a parent already?
“I’m new at this.”

When I look round and realize I opted to rest instead of tidying the house? And when I learn a house of three gets out of hand MUCH faster than a house for one?
“I’m doing the best I can.”

When I see friends running to the store or to get a coffee and I wonder when I’ll find those here in this new place?
“This is hard.”

When we’re so programmed to look at the things we know and have and are as merit badges that show our worth, all of them changing is a tricky place to be.

I’m learning giving myself some grace, lowering expectations, airing out my struggles aloud to safe people, praying earnestly to God about what is tricky or new, and laying heavy things down is better. I don’t have to shove it down, soldier on, and carry everything beautifully.

Suddenly, the dishes piled up, the laundry that’s never put away, the projects undone are not posters that put my failure on display. They just are. I don’t have to exist merely to maintain things. I don’t live merely to serve a home. I don’t have to be perfect for everyone around me. I can just be.

Fragile, messy, loud, distractible, emotional, and me.

I can rest here and type this little post with the mess all around. And I can keep pushing forward through the clutter when my heart is ready.

I don’t have to cross a finish line in order to rest. I can rest right here in the messy middle.

L