In the span of just two weeks, the rhythm of my life was violently disrupted, replaced by a forced stillness that I never saw coming. It began on the evening of February 27, when a black truck turned left directly into my vehicle’s path. The impact was high-velocity and terrifying, painting my mid-section with a map of deep purple contusions and bruising that stretched from hip to hip. But as I sat in the quiet aftermath of deployed airbags and twisted metal, my physical pain was eclipsed by a profound sense of luck. My husband and I walked away. We were alive. We were discharged to go home. The script of that night could have been written very differently, and we knew it.
However, survival was only the first chapter. Just a few days later, I moved from the trauma of the near-fatal accident into the sterile reality of a planned surgery — one that carried a daunting eight-week recovery timeline. Suddenly, the woman who is used to directing the flow of a busy household and a demanding career found herself anchored to a bed, restricted by a 10 lb. lifting limit and the heavy fog of pain medication and fatigue.
Then, as if to test the very limits of my resolve, the sky turned white. A spring blizzard swept across the farm, bringing with it the biting wind and heavy snow that demands every hand on deck. From my window, I watched the world turn cold while my home hummed with a different kind of energy. Because it was spring break, all of my children were home. And because of the elements that Mother Nature graced us with, they were outside, plowing snow, bedding calf huts and taking over the extra chores that define farm life in a storm.
The Weight of the “Mind Over Matter” Mantra
As I watched them, a heavy, suffocating sense of guilt filled the room. I wanted to be out there. I wanted to be of service, to be the one hauling the buckets or — at the very least — the one standing over a hot stove preparing a meal for the exhausted crew coming in from the cold. Growing up on a farm, often we are raised on a steady mantra “mind over matter.” Farm women are legendary for their toughness. We are the ones who push through the flu, the ones who work until the job is done, the ones who equate our value with our productivity.
But as I lay there, sore and exhausted, I realized my toughness was being called upon in a way I hadn’t practiced before. I had to learn the foreign concept of extending grace to myself.
Strength Through Grace
I had to understand rest isn’t a lapse in character. It is a required ingredient for a future of service. To truly lead my family and my community, I had to lead by example in the art of self-care. I had to embrace the season of stillness I was in, allowing my body and mind to knit themselves back together. I had to accept that for this brief moment in time, the most productive thing I could do was to kick my feet up and sleep.
It is so much easier said than done. It feels like a betrayal of our nature to let others wait on us. Yet there is a sacredness in allowing those you have spent your life serving to serve you in return. It allows them to grow, and it allows you to heal.
If you find yourself in a season where you are doing “less,” please listen to your body and your doctor. Do not mistake rest for weakness. Whether you are recovering from a literal collision or the metaphorical storms of life, remember the farm will stand, the chores will get done, the farm family will manage to find something to eat and the world will keep turning. Allow yourself the grace to be still. For once, let the help come to you. Because in the end, that is the only way we truly heal.
