When we're always preparing for the worst, we miss out on our best
Was finally learning how to live in the present the secret to getting to the future I wanted?
Welcome to The Pivot. This is a hybrid space, part journal, part newsletter — where I share what I'm living, learning and questions that I need to ask myself to keep moving forward. It's for those who are feeling the call to make a move, to shift. It's a reminder that we don't have to jump off a cliff — just simply turn our bodies just the tiniest bit and pivot. And yet those small movements can be the hardest ones to make.
So I figure I would share my journey so we can do it together. And, if I didn’t mention it before, I'm really glad you're here.
Good morning.
During my pediatric residency training, I didn't get much sleep. Every four days, I was required to be on call, staying overnight in the hospital after 13-hour workdays, to both admit new patients and manage the ones already in the hospital. Technically, I was supposed to leave in the morning after 24 hours, but we usually needed to make sure everything was settled for the new patients. This meant I wouldn’t leave until the afternoon, 30 hours after I started work the day before.
The rest of that “post-call” day should really be for sleep, but it usually was the only day in a week to complete normal things that regular people do, like shop for groceries, go to the doctor, get your teeth cleaned and perhaps, meet up with friends who don't mind you hanging around them in a semi-comatose state.
However, there was another side effect of this schedule. This residency-induced sleep deprivation technique also forced us to never enjoy moments of reprieve, when there was a lull in admissions or it was just a quiet night. We remained on edge, and most times still relatively awake, just in case our patient decided that this would be the night they would try to die. When I admitted a new patient who seemed relatively stable, I never felt at peace. Instead, my brain would immediately create a running list of possible but unlikely scenarios that could kill this person and I would spend all night trying to ensure that did not occur.
When the emergencies did present themselves — having to resuscitate a young child or having to give mom the worst news about her child’s test results — they were so jarring that I would do everything to prevent them from happening again.
Slowly, I had transformed into a person accustomed to always preparing for crisis and never living in the present. While this may have been necessary when working in a hospital filled with children who are much sicker than the general population, it’s a problem when you adopt this as your go-to way of life.
So, what happens when those of us “blessed” with unrelenting hypervigilance do encounter a significant problem? We literally malfunction. It consumes, overwhelms, and destabilizes us, at least until we can find safety. So, I tried to remember what I did to feel safe when I was a child.
And that’s how I started writing again.
When I put words on the page, I am not thinking about the past or the future. I am just sharing what I feel at a certain moment with no need for the words to resolve it. Instead, I am fulfilling a different need — to share, understand and make known what I am feeling right now.
But wait, there’s more.