Unquiet
Things

Confession. I have never watched Lawnmower Man. I haven’t the slightest idea what it is meant to be about. But in my imagination, it’s a man who magically turns into a lawnmower? But less magical and more body horror? Sort of a cross between Usagi Tsukino turning into a magical girl Sailor Guardian, and Optimus Prime transforming into a semi-truck, but with more lawnmowers and directed by Takashi Miike? Don’t spoil it for me.

Anyway, I’m standing in front of the mirror, tugging on canvas overalls with cute little vegetables dancing on them, in contrast to the heavy, ugly socks already on my feet. Outside, the morning sun burns off last night’s thunderstorm, steam rising from our overgrown lawn. I’m waiting for it to dry, but truthfully, I’m stalling.

Today, I have to mow the lawn for the first time in my life.

For days, I’ve been in a fog, fixated on this looming task. The thought of pushing that snarling machine across our yard has consumed me. What if I do it wrong? What if I leave drunken paths crisscrossing the lawn, a clear beacon to our neighbors that I have no idea what I’m doing? And then there’s the machine itself – all I can picture are whirling blades waiting to catch my fingers or toes–what if I mow my hands right off?

The thermometer already reads 92 degrees. I’m going to be a sweaty, nervous wreck out there.

This isn’t just about mowing a lawn, though. It’s about how quickly life can throw you out of orbit. Adding to my anxiety is the ticking clock of our Homeowners Association, a cabal of faceless enforcers I live in constant fear of. Any day now, I expect a passive-aggressive email reminding us of our “community standards.”

As I’m suiting up, a bittersweet realization hits me: at this very moment, Yvan and I were supposed to be on a plane to Denver. Our first real vacation since 2017, a trip now canceled due to his broken foot. Strangely, I find myself less upset about the missed vacation and more anxious about the impending lawn mowing task. This realization puzzles me – shouldn’t I be more disappointed about our canceled plans?

But beneath all of this surface-level stress lies a deeper, more primal fear. Yvan, my partner-in-crime, maybe even my handler, you could say (I am very high-strung, and he is so good at calming me down) – he’s injured. Aside from our simultaneous contraction of Covid back in the autumn of 2022, for the first time since we’ve been together, I’m faced with the stark reality of his vulnerability. He can be hurt. He’s mortal. He’s gonna die. We’re all gonna die. This is the part where I start disassociating.

But life has a funny way of surprising you. As I stood there, I glanced out the window to see my neighbor’s lawn service arrive. The neighbor herself, out on her driveway, talking to the guys. She’s the sister of the woman who we bought the house from, so I am actually more afraid of her judgement than the HOA (she is actually on the HOA, too, though!) To my amazement, though, she wasn’t complaining about us; she was sending them our way! One of the crew members strolled over to our property and started edging our lawn. Soon after, a man on a riding mower appeared, making quick work of our overgrown grass jungle.

When they finished, they left their boss’s business card. With shaking hands, I passed it to Yvan. He made the call, and just like that, we were on their schedule for the next two months.

In that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe again. I could think again! The fog that had been clouding my mind began to lift, and I realized just how much this one task had been affecting me. It wasn’t just about mowing the lawn – it was about feeling overwhelmed, out of my depth, and scared of failing.

This experience has made me reflect on how we cope when life throws us curveballs. I’ve found myself thrust back into the role of caregiver – a familiar position from caring for my grandparents, who were quite old, but one I wasn’t ready to revisit so soon, especially with my partner, who is four years younger than I am! There’s a fog that descends, clouding thoughts and making even simple decisions feel overwhelming, it’s like trying to navigate through pea soup while also juggling chainsaws. The fatigue that comes with this domestic role reversal is real and pervasive.  Tasks that were once shared now fall squarely on my shoulders. I’m learning to adapt, but the stress of this rapid adjustment is palpable.

Perhaps most challenging is the discomfort of being pushed so far out of my comfort zone. I’m constantly aware that I’m operating in unfamiliar territory, reminded of how much I relied on Yvan’s knowledge and skills in these areas. I don’t know if he’s a better driver than me (I mean, probably), but he is certainly less nervous. And now I am the one driving to the grocery store, to doctor’s appointments, to family dinners. Much like the thought of having to mow the lawn is almost incapacitating, knowing that I have to drive us somewhere at the end of the day takes up every spare bit of brain space I have and leaves room for absolutely nothing else. I can’t hold a conversation or make a decision; I can barely get out of bed and get dressed in the morning–my anxiety takes up so much room.

This leads to a maddening paradox now in my daily life. For example, despite being a pretty decent cook, I’m ordering out more frequently than I’d like, which is neither good for our wallet nor our health.  Or how we’d trained ourselves to wake up at 5 am and walk for 2-3 miles several days a week, and now I just fitfully sleep in, ignoring the alarm and the only form of exercise I even like to engage in. I mean, obviously, Yvan’s not going to hobbling around the block in the pre-dawn hours with his unwieldy boot and crutches, but I’ve got no excuse! This discrepancy between what I’m capable of and what I’m actually doing has led me to a realization that both fascinates and frustrates me: the routines we build and the self-care habits we practice should, in theory, serve us best in times of stress. They should be our lifeline when life gets chaotic, a form of muscle memory kicking in to ensure we take care of ourselves when our minds are overwhelmed.

Yet, I’m finding the opposite to be true. These habits, so easy to maintain when life flows smoothly, seem to crumble at the first sign of turbulence. It’s as if the neural pathways I’ve carefully constructed for self-care short-circuit under pressure. Why is it that precisely when I need these routines most, they feel the hardest to maintain?

There’s a cruel irony in how effortlessly I can stick to my habits when life is easy, only to watch them dissolve when the going gets tough. It’s like I’ve been training for a marathon on a treadmill, only to find myself stumbling on the actual, uneven terrain of life’s challenges. This disconnect between intention and action, between what I know I should do and what I actually do in times of stress, is disheartening.

I can’t help but wonder: am I failing my habits, or are my habits failing me? Perhaps the way we approach building these routines is flawed. Maybe we need to design our self-care strategies not for the calm days, but for the storms. Because it’s in these moments of crisis, when all sense of self-preservation seems to go out the window, that we need our good habits the most. And yet, it’s precisely then that they feel the most elusive.

As the day winds down, I realize something that’s been lurking beneath the surface all week: today marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. The realization hits me with a vicious pinch, and suddenly, all the stress and anxiety of the past few days takes on a new dimension. Had this been simmering in my subconscious all along, adding to my sense of unease and displacement? I had a hard time grieving my dad because we didn’t have much of a relationship, but the connection between my current struggles and this anniversary isn’t lost on me. Perhaps my fixation on the lawn, the driving, and the mundane tasks of daily life was a way of avoiding the complicated feelings that this day brings. It’s easier, after all, to worry about grass and left-hand turns than to confront the permanent absence of a father-daughter relationship I now will never have a chance to repair.

This realization brings a new layer of complexity to my emotional landscape. It reminds me that our reactions to life’s challenges are often influenced by factors we’re not even consciously aware of. The fact that I was more anxious about mowing the lawn than disappointed about our canceled trip suddenly makes more sense – in the face of grief and mortality, everyday tasks can become both a distraction and a lifeline.

As I sit here, rereading what I’ve written, I find myself wondering about the purpose of this exercise. Why did I feel compelled to put these thoughts to paper? Perhaps it’s an attempt to make sense of the chaos, to find patterns in the seemingly random series of events that have upended my life. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – a need to externalize the swirling thoughts and emotions that have been consuming me.

I don’t know if these experiences have official names or if psychologists have studied them, but putting words to these feelings—maybe “Routine Disruption Syndrome,” “Caregiver’s Fog,” “Adaptive Stress Overload,” “Domestic Role Reversal Fatigue,” or “Comfort Zone Exodus Syndrome”—makes me feel less alone and less crazy. Maybe by naming these experiences, I can start to understand them better and, in understanding, find some measure of peace.
I don’t have any profound conclusions to draw, no neat resolutions to offer. The lawn is mowed, but my anxiety lingers. Yvan’s foot will heal, but the reminder of our fragility remains. The anniversary of my father’s death has passed, but the weird emotions it stirs up aren’t so easily tidied away.

What I’m left with is a messy, scarily honest snapshot of a middle-aged life. It’s not pretty or inspirational, but it’s real. And maybe that’s the point – to acknowledge the struggle, to give voice to the discomfort of change and loss, without trying to sugarcoat it or wrap it up in a bow. It’s not about finding answers, but about sitting with the questions, allowing myself to feel the full weight of this moment. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but also so very, very human. And you have no idea how often I have to remind myself that I am actually human, or how comforting it is to believe.