It had been a particularly overwhelming couple of weeks filled with good news, challenging scenarios professionally and exhausting scenarios personally. There was a day in mid-April when I couldn’t seem to access any of the “go” buttons in my brain. I stared, blinking, at my computer, arms stretched to the keyboard but no movement could be found in my fingers. The massive amount of work I had to accomplish plopped over my arms like a big fat cat. I wondered how to find the gumption to rise out of the paralyzation. And then a flicker of thought: was I entering a mental health crisis? And if I was, was it something wrong from within me, or were external circumstances creating the crisis? 

There was a lot swirling in my head, but I am accustomed to living—and thriving—that way. This moment—thumped down in the middle of the week, on a Wednesday—felt heavier than ever before. And later that day as I pushed beyond the speed limit on the freeway with music blaring, I wondered how swiftly everyone would recover from me being … gone. Just poof and I’m in Hawaii or the heavens. Anywhere, but here. Which was an odd twist of thoughts, because I had just been picked up by a literary agent with promises that my heart project over the last seven years was going to get its wings and be the big, mighty book series I dreamed it could be. There were—and still are—big things on the horizon for this project. For me. 

But, I had swooped in to take over an event in the last stages, and it was not a clean transition. I could see myself standing in the hollow, echoing chambers of the 10,000 square foot event space with too few vendors and wide-eyed guests with Mona Lisa gazes following me wherever I walked—wondering how they’ll be dazzled as they have rightfully come to expect. I was on deadline for 164 pages of magazine content, and not all of my more than 20 contributors were managing that timing independent of my gentle nudges. I was considering a professional opportunity on the west side of the state that would split my weeks in half between Spokane and Seattle. I was trying to figure out how to budget-in the Care Credit payment on the nearly $3,000 tab from saving the life of my 14 1/2 year old decrepit teacup MinPin who just peed all over the $2,000 sofa I purchased less than a year ago. And my tough, independent outer shell protected a soggy sponge of sadness over the end of a relationship I had placed all romance hope on lasting forever. 

I forced myself to break out little bits of everything in my mind and create a list of tasks when I returned home that evening—it’s the trick I use to make what feels like too much seem consumable and not allow myself to be swallowed whole by the massive beast of it all—much like the wretched Rhinoceros that screeched down from the clouds and gobbled up the parents from James and the Giant Peach. 

I woke up to the brand new day of Thursday, and vowed to only think of the task at the top of the list. Robotically getting through it was fine, I coached myself. Just keep walking through it. By Friday, I was feeling some alleviation from the mind-numbing weight I experienced on Wednesday. I continued to check off my task list, sold 11 vendors into the event and closed sales. Wrote and sent the vendor event day instructions. Followed up with contributors who had yet to submit their magazine assignments after blowing the content deadline. Made sure all 164 pages of this issue of the magazine were slated with content worthy of your readership, and that of 89,000 other readers. 

I left the office at the end of the day noticing the sunshine and breathing in as much of the sweet spring air in one gasp as possible. I didn’t have kiddos or plans that evening and knew I needed to lay low. On my way home, I drove through McDonald’s on Third Avenue for a Diet Coke. The young man at the window asked how I was; I paused and said “You know, I think I’m okay.”

“Oh, man, I hear you,” he said. “Everything has been so fuzzy for me.”

“Oh my gosh, my entire week has felt like that,” I said.

“My whole life has been fuzzy,” he said. “Or … if your whole life is fuzzy, is it actually fuzzy? Or is it just that way for you. Just hard to see through, but that’s your best view?”

“I think sometimes life is fuzzy—sometimes for longer periods than others—but I know no matter the view at any given time, it can eventually feel clearer if we hang in there and keep trying to see more,” I said.

He threw his head back and his arms out. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard,” he said smiling up at the ceiling. “Thank you.”

We looked at each other with that humble understanding that we all experience challenges. “Keep showing up, mister, things will get clearer over time,” I said as I slowly drove away, smiling. 

For the young man in the McDonald’s drive through window, to anyone grappling with anything, I’m with you. And I appreciate knowing you are with me, too. Being humble helps us realize we are all walking on the same ground. It is the great neutralizer of humanity, reminding us our values never outrank—or surrender to—one another. I offer you this sacrificial story—and humbleness—as a token of truth for us all. 

We are Spokane Coeur d’Alene Living magazine, and we are Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. Please find me on Facebook or Twitter—and hop over to “like” the Spokane Coeur d’Alene Living magazine page—to stay connected between press dates, and to share your thoughts, stories and life in real time.

To us all,  

Stephanie Regalado 

stephanie@spokanecda.com