'How are you really doing?'

Lately, people who have been following me for a while are starting to notice a shift.

I am changing inside, and my environment notices it too.

More and more, people ask me: "How are you really doing?" 

To be honest, it triggers me.

My first thought is always: I'm fine, leave me alone, I don’t need your pity. 

But the wiser part of me knows they ask with the best intentions.

They care, they want to help.

So I shouldn't be annoyed.

But the fact that they ask so often shows they think I’m doing badly.

And I understand why.

Lately, my blogs are less 'positive' than they used to be.

I am open about what occupies my mind, more than what is considered 'normal'.

Because of that, the old picture people had of me, the strong woman who has it all together, who is always in a good mood and has energy for ten, is quietly crumbling.

The strange thing is, I am not more unhappy, overstimulated, or low on energy than before.

Maybe even the opposite.

I have never felt this content with who I am. I’ve never been so proud of my growth, or felt so much love for myself, my kids, my partner, and the world.

The intense, positive emotions are still there.

The big difference is that my mask for the 'negative' emotions is slipping.

With negative emotions, I mean the ones society finds uncomfortable and that are, let’s be honest, just really hard to carry: anxiety, overstimulation, anger, fatigue, frustration, powerlessness, sadness, guilt, and shame.

I used to hide them all to not bother others.

But that cost me every bit of energy I had.

It meant I had to process everything alone.

You don't want to know how many times I cried myself to sleep in the past.

Or I developed unhealthy coping mechanisms to avoid feeling them, like a complicated relationship with food, or working/excercising too hard.

Lately, I choose not to do that anymore.

Which means I have to learn to deal with the powerlessness and the effect of my new behavior on others.

Just riding, no talking

A few days ago, I experienced a very clear example of this.

It was Sunday afternoon.

In the morning, I had helped my daughter study for her exams, which had been challenging, to say the least.

By 1:30 PM, my battery was completely empty.

Still, my dad and I had agreed to go cycling.

Usually, we ride between 70 and 100 kilometres every weekend.

Because we started late, it would be between 55 and 75 kilometres today (spoiler alert: it became 75).

It already took a lot of kindness toward myself not to force a 100-kilometre ride.

I was actually quite proud of myself for deciding that 75 kilometres was more than enough for a day that started at 2:00 PM, after an exhausting morning, in 30-plus degree heat.

First, you need to know that I love my father deeply.

We are two peas in a pod, and our bike rides are a highlight of the week for both of us.

Usually, we talk non-stop about our week, what we experienced, and what the next week will bring.

My dad loves hearing about my life, and I love telling him.

It’s my way of processing my week aloud, and usually, I get great advice as a bonus.

But on this Sunday afternoon, I felt it: I didn't have the energy to carry the conversation.

I couldn't tell stories, take the initiative, ask questions, or be empathetic.

I had the energy to physically ride the bike, but the social part was just too much.

In the beginning, I tried a little bit: "How was your week?" "How did you celebrate your birthday?" 

But the longer we rode, the more I realized: I can't do this. I just want to cycle. Maybe I even want to be alone. 

And then the guilt started. Your dad just turned 71 this week, he drove over 60 kilometres to get here to cycle with you, and you can’t even make the effort to talk to him. What a terrible daughter you are. 

By the time we reached our halfway stop around 40 kilometres to get a drink and refill our bottles, I was desperate.

My energy hadn't gone up.

Out of the 40 kilometres, we had been silent for at least 30 or 35.

I wanted to tell him how I felt, but I didn't know how.

The Break on the Terrace

We sat on the terrace.

And then he asked the question anyway: "How are you really doing?"

It was the invitation I needed to start speaking.

I told him how I felt: "It's challenging. Sometimes things go really well (We have two great bachelor students doing their internship in our group right now, the new elective course I'm trying out is going great, and I'm looking forward to a live podcast about 'Can AI be your coach?'). But at other times, it is very heavy. There are many moments where it just gets too much. It’s not always easy to carry. And what hits me most right now is the loneliness. Everyone looks at me like 'poor Lieseke', but there is little to no actual help."

My dad asked: "But who do you mean by everyone?"

I answered: "Maarten (my husband), to begin with." 

And then I looked at him and said: "But also you, dad. You are just sitting here looking at me."

I felt immediately that my words hurt him deeply.

His body froze.

He asked: "But what do you actually expect then?"

In pure desperation, I said: "That you help me."

He didn't answer.

Total silence.

For just a few seconds.

Then he asked for the bill.

He went to the restroom to refill his water bottles, and I was left alone on the terrace.

The tears came.

Very quietly, almost invisible to the people around me.

I was sitting on a crowded terrace and I was wearing makeup, so I tried to stop them.

But a massive wave of sadness went through my body.

In that moment, I felt so incredibly lonely, powerless, and alone.

Not much later, he came back.

I had my sunglasses on, so I don't think he noticed the tears.

I went to the restroom next and filled my bottles too.

While the water was running, I looked at myself in the mirror.

I saw the sadness in my eyes, but my makeup hadn't really smeared.

I could go back outside.

Externally, I was patched up enough to finish the ride.

The remaining 35 kilometres

We started the next 35 kilometres.

Almost entirely in silence.

Every now and then we said something, but it was just: "Left here," "Watch out for the post," and some small talk.

Yet, inside my mind, so much was happening during that second part of the ride.

I suddenly understood why I always feel like "too much" when I am sad or low on energy.

Why I learned to believe that these emotions simply shouldn't be there.

What happened on that terrace was exactly what I felt so often when I was little: the feeling that nobody can help you, so you have to fix it yourself, and you better do it fast because you are bothering others.

But this time, I could see it clearly.

My father was not ignoring me because he didn't care.

He loves me, he wants to help me, but he just has no clue how.

And honestly, I get it.

These are not easy conversations.

You can't just co-regulate these heavy emotions easily.

During those silent kilometres, I started thinking:

What did I actually want my father to say on that terrace?

And can I say those things to myself?

I realized what I had needed him to say were the exact things I now had to tell myself.

So, I started repeating them in my head like a mantra:

"Lies, you are not alone. You are safe.

You are allowed to feel these emotions, and you can carry them." 

To help myself process it, I started changing my focus on the bike.

Instead of staying trapped in my head with the unhelpful thought that I was all alone, I deliberately forced my brain to look outward.

I literally started looking around at the landscape, taking in the environment.

I began breathing more consciously, slow and deep, to calm my nervous system.

And I shifted my attention to what I was grateful for at that exact moment.

By shifting my focus, I realized I am not as alone as I felt on that terrace.

I have so many people around me who love me and help me, each in their own unique way. To name just a few examples:

• My husband, who simply holds me tightly when I am completely overloaded.

• My daughter, who is so brave with her own emotions, and who gives me the words to understand my own past through her talent for images and words.

• My son, who makes me laugh with his humor, even when I want to stay serious.

• My sister, who always cheers me on from the sidelines and reminds me: "Lies, you are not a problem that needs to be solved."

• And my father. Who was riding right behind me. Probably quiet because he couldn't find the right words and was thinking about what to say. But when we got home, even though he was exhausted from the heat and the heavy ride, he spent the next two hours installing our outdoor blinds on the sunny side of the house, just to keep our home cool.

There are so many others who help me too, in ways big and small.

By the time I stepped off my bike,

the heavy sadness was gone.

I just felt tired, but mostly grateful.

My body and my brain learned something important that day.

It is okay to feel these things.

I can carry them.

And even in the silence, I am safe.