Bumps and grooved pavement.

With Spring finally springing, I’ve been carsetting⁠1 around New England a lot lately. This one particular stretch of under-construction highway I’ve been traveling on is a metaphor: 

Bump. 

Grooved pavement.

Slow speed. 

Bump.

End construction zone.

Almost one year ago this week, I hit the first bump. In addition to being a full-time business owner, I had come off a 10-week fundraising challenge that was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Life-changing in so many unexpected ways. 

That 10-week sprint was also the most tiring period I can remember since my 20s in NYC. Just my email alone quadrupled with personal, heartfelt stories from friends, family, and strangers who would become new friends. Always a bit more comfortable with The Ask, I was entirely unskilled in The Receipt. I was punch-drunk on peoples’ willingness to help and their stories. Stories of loss. Stories of others giving cancer the finger⁠2, too. Stories of survival and resilience. 

After the gala, Craig and I retreated to Québec for a change of pace and scenery. Our vacation mostly consisted of sleeping 12+ hours and walks in the sun. Craig perked right back up, but not me. It was like I was driving on grooved pavement. Every time I tried to accelerate back to my normal speed, it never worked well. Going into summer, I was stuck at my new slower speed - cold and fatigued with slower mental acuity. To put it into perspective: Long underwear and winter caps were still de rigueur at Chez Snyder in the Summer 2014 season, especially if I wanted to get my increasingly shorter daily walks in before the full sun at 3pm. 

I’d be moving at this reduced speed (or slower) until I hit another bump several months later. Followed by what would be a Hashimoto’s thyroiditis diagnosis. 

Back then I was looking everywhere for the End Construction Zone sign. But the reality is: The grooved pavement may end, but the highway doesn’t. 

 

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1 No jet required for trips 90 minutes or less. 

2 Pretty sure you know which one.