When the nurturer needs nurturing

The power of putting your needs first

It's late on a January afternoon. Once again, my aims to have an early morning walk to smile at the pale crescent moon, has turned instead to kissing the golden hour before the light disappears. I’m trying to catch a glimpse of the sun, the SPF 50 I lathered on my face this morning pointless now, as the sun is almost at the horizon. But it feels good to be out. I've had this wired, thrumming feeling in my body, this very strange energy that’s uncomfortable to sit with.

It's late afternoon because life took hold and steered me in other directions, threw me other distractions today. But I’m here, and so are the good things that nurture my soul. The bird songs are melodic, seeping through my pores. The blue sky above me is dissected by gnarly, sprawling, bare branches. I am calmed. Soothed, and I am filled with hope, as is always the way of these walks.

Our connection with nature is something not fully understood yet.  It’s categorically undeniable that people in cities are more stressed out, and those closer to nature are much calmer. These walks are my daily medicine. They help me to recalibrate, to sort out problems whilst my body is busy moving. It’s where I often write. It’s become a bit of a ritual and I usually feel unsettled if I miss it.

Back in my early twenties I was prescribed anti-depressants when I could no longer function at uni, due to losing my family home unexpectedly and dealing with the repercussions of that. I lasted only a few months on them. I hated the way the way they made me feel. Oddly numb, like nothing was really touching me. I looked to taking it easy after I graduated to try and help, and I lost myself in the joy of reading picture books for both enjoyment, and research (back then I wanted to be a picture book writer and illustrator).

It helped. The shadows abated enough to create my own artwork. I started going for walks in the local green, too. Nature was giving me something that no drug could mimic. My depression is circumstantial: it took a while for me to be sure, but it’s never reared it’s head for me without something going on in my life (trauma, financial strain, grief etc). That may change, at any point, but it’s how I’ve come to understand it this far. And when there’s stressful things going on, my best option is to find downtime, ideally outdoors.

The minute I step outside my door and get outside, a shift happens. Adventure and freedom await. I’m privileged: this isn't me commuting, this is not a walk that has a destination at the end of it. It’s me going out for the joy of it.  Not too long ago, humans often went outside for this unattached walking, a ramble, if you will.  There was no goal – other than perhaps seeing a rare bird species, or a new cloud formation. It was about listening to the land, communing with the wildlife.

The pace of life has picked up so fast and we’re collectively feeling it. We’re exhausted by technology, and how ingrained it's become in our livelihoods. I know there’s an irony here; a writer talking about needing headspace and getting on a walk, and yet I am talking into an app on my phone to record information to put up on a website. I’m doing this because this is the way the world is. This is how we connect with people. For me, it's all about connection. And actually, it probably would be better for my mental health if this was not the medium I used.

But, I’m not complaining. I know that I can connect with readers farther afield than I would otherwise be able to, and I cannot tell you how much that excites me, to be able to have conversations with people living elsewhere on the planet. It gives us a much bigger perspective… a more altruistic one.  But there is a balance to strike. I know there are many people out there who are buckling under the pressure to be constantly churning out content and ideas, getting comments and likes. It’s why I was firm about the fact that this space doesn't have any boundaries or limitations. It's going to be coming to you from my walks, where I have time and space to think and share my truth and my honesty, and that's pretty much it. It's free to evolve as I might. And it's very much a deliberate, willful act of self-determination and actualization, hence the name, re-wilding.

Earlier this morning, I was far away from nature, getting my lumbar spine X-rayed. I've had chronic, acute pain in my mid-low spine for the last few months, and they want to make sure it’s nothing serious. A few months is far too long to be in pain, but I was convinced we needed to get a new bed, even though ours was only five years old. When we went away for a night, my back would ease a bit. So we got one but the pain’s still there, weeks later.

Photo by Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz on Unsplash

I’m lying on my back on this solid, medical bed, getting my X-ray taken, and the technician comes over and places her hands on me to re-position me. She is so gentle, pressing around my ribs and, and around the curve of my hip socket, so careful. A surge of emotion wells up, deep in my core, and I pause, asking myself to identify what this is. It dawns, that perhaps I’m feeling a bit of a lack of care, or of nurturing at the moment.

A lot of people will probably relate to that feeling. When you think about it, what are the spaces in our lives that actively nurture us and make us feel held? The kind of held where there’s creative nurturing, inspiration. There's talking with other writers, there's reading books, connecting online. I think I miss being around other writers. Covid safety has been paramount for me as I have chronic illness, but it’s meant I’m missing out on interaction. And I’m feeling it.

At the start of 2018 I started running a co-work for writers that ran for eighteen months, where I was meeting with a group of other writers weekly. If anyone encountered a problem in their writing, they’d just brainstorm or troubleshoot it with the group, and it was a very supportive environment. It’s where I penned my first novel and took myself seriously as a writer for the first time. Just a few months later, the pandemic hit.

I’m aware that although I’m autistic, and I like my space, I also love and thrive on connection, on the meeting of kindred spirits. I need a nurturing space, as a creative person. I get inspired and energised knowing I’m with people also trying this thing we call writing. I think anyone who is a habitual nurturer responds positively to that being returned. As a carer and activist, I don’t always prioritise my own wellbeing and work, and sometimes it takes a moment as simple as a strangers kind hands wrapped around my bones, to realise that.

It’s been a traumatic couple of years, not least because of the pandemic. I lost my mother-in-law, had a targeted attack against me online, which resulted in a drawn-out police investigation, and I experienced a situation where a mentor let me down immeasurably, the trauma from which I am barely beginning to process. These are big events to be dealing with, and in my case, whilst dedicating myself to creating a free resource for the publishing industry which teaches them how to be accessible to disabled communities. It has been a time where I’ve spent far more hours at my desk than I intended, and far too little outside.

So I am here, at a moment, an in-between. Getting the Inklusion guide printed in a couple of weeks, managing final steps with my co-founder (who is also burnt out), whilst trying to grab the threads of my creative self once more. What does that look like? In an industry that typically undervalues writers, and which holds up barrier after barrier to development. The shape is there, it’s still nebulous. There are things happening. Good things. Kindness, and support, and belief. There is progress. But it’s slow going.

The young assistant technician comes over, and the lead technician draws a curve around my hip, telling her to angle it just-so for this kind of X-ray. Both of them have their hands on me and I feel like I’m being blessed, or something. It’s spiritual – at least it is to me. I’m as aware of their cells, bones and muscle as I am of my on in this moment. We’re a triptych.

I wonder if they can heal by touch.

Photo by ABDALLA M on Unsplash

When I had a breakdown due to burnout a few years ago, a friend who did massage got me into her clinic every week, for an hour’s full body massage, with occasional reiki. This went on for a couple of months. Every time a session was over and the door closed behind my friend, I’d howl salty, emotional agony into my towel, tears releasing more than my conscious could. My body was ejecting what no longer served me, in the best way it could. It was processing hard things. Gradually, the tears became less, and my body stopped hurting so much. I think it was a mix of feeling held, supported, nurtured – and of energy being moved through me in a way I couldn’t facilitate myself.

This time, I’ve been working hard on a cerebral level, addressing what challenges me, what saps my energy, and what I can loosen myself from to better align myself. But I’m on the fringes of that place, where care is the best option. I don’t know where to find it.

The technicians lift their hands and go behind the screen. They photograph my bones. But I'm so much more than that. The lightness of their touch tells me they know this, too.

I believe we need to create spaces that nurture writers, care for them and address their needs. These places exist, and they do a wonderful job, but we need more of them, and we need them for people who carry additional burden. Imagine a place where you are welcomed, free of cost, to sit with yourself, with others, and your ideas. A place to rest, or to write, where you are nurtured. Perhaps there’s yoga, counselling, sharing circles. Everything is optional, nothing is a commitment.

Writers have the power to influence society, to change the world. People pick up a book when they have a problem they don’t know how to solve. I read books endlessly that teach me so much about myself, where I want to be, or how to improve on multiple levels. How to dream. We are often empathetic people who are serving a greater purpose with our work. Whether it's to shed light on inequality, climate catastrophe, or whether it's to encourage people to achieve their intention, or to highlight the ways in which we’re all different. Books are our salvation, for many occasions, and we need to nurture their creators.

If you’re an activist, a carer, or someone who is in a position of serving society in some way, it’s an admirable thing to be doing, but you must be kind to yourself. Take a step back and take an action that serves your wellbeing. It’s okay to take time out to re-calibrate, to be firing on one cylinder instead of all of them.

I don’t know what’s ahead, but I know I’m choosing me, as much as I can for a while. I’m giving myself a hug.

You should give yourself one, too.

If this resonates, I’d love to know. We don’t talk about this like we should. Leave a comment below and I’ll respond xx