... But that's not the whole story.

Last year, I walked 50,000 steps in a single day. I’d hit my target. 

A few weeks before, my bouncing enthusiasm had declared  ‘100,000 steps for SWAN’ on the Just Giving page and my Olympian Sandal badge in the bag.  It irked that I halved my goal after realising that it was not simply multiplying by 5 the 20,000 paces I strode regularly - it required a whole new level of fitness and involved a very long day. I’d settle for adding the Cowboy Boot badge to my Fitbit collection - not as grand as a grecian sandal with wings but I quite enjoyed line dancing!

For years I’ve hidden my flitting fads and copious collections.  I examined the time invested in these fleeting passions and berated myself. Why couldn’t I stick with anything? I’m now embracing the joy in my passions, including the over-the-top, avid collector spirit - no longer ashamed to admit it. 

After the elation of my walk,  I was completely flattened. Not just tired—something deeper than that. My body felt as though it had been hollowed out, and my mind followed. Everything was too much: noise, conversation, even simple decisions. I remember standing in the kitchen, unable to work out what to do next, which is not something I would ever admit to anyone, not least myself.  

In the past I would have brushed that aside. Told myself I’d overdone it, that I just needed to “get on with it,” that everyone gets tired. And I had got on with it. That’s how my life has worked. Raising five children, being married for fifty-one years, keeping things moving, keeping things steady. You battle on through anxiety, depression, overwhelm, breakdowns and mental health diagnoses. 

But something has shifted recently.

After going through an assessment last year and beginning to explore my life through the lens of AuDHD, I find I can’t quite dismiss these moments so easily anymore. Or perhaps I don’t want to. 

Now, I’m starting to wonder how many of my “strengths” have come at a cost I never properly acknowledged. I’m looking back with compassion, slowly sieving the guilt, shame and confusion and acknowledging the reasons for the fall-out in all areas of my life - relationships, education, employment - when exhaustion from masking, misunderstood emotional dysregulation and buried trauma spectacularly exploded or insidiously imploded. 

At almost seventy, I’m learning to notice the after as much as the event itself. 

To ask:

What did that feel like, really?

What did I need, and did I listen?

And what might I do differently next time?

I’m not writing this because I have answers. If anything, I seem to have more questions than ever. Something I’m exploring with a wonderful counsellor who truly sees me. 

But I have a growing sense that understanding myself—even now, perhaps especially now—is worth the effort. I’d like to emerge from the historic sludge in the chrysalis and embrace the butterfly who flits.

And perhaps, if you’re reading this and something in it feels familiar, you might begin asking a few of your own questions too.

The Hidden Writer

A Moodscope member