Tie Your Laces

On zooming in, when zooming out feels too much, too fast, too soon

Feb 15, 2024

A beautiful spot not far from home. A place to land.

It was really scary when the things I normally loved doing, like going to my weekly dance classes, were no longer bringing me joy, but rather, dread. That’s when I knew my mental health was suffering, and I needed to do something about it.

If you follow me on social media, you will know how much I adore movement and dance. It’s been a large part of my life for years, and a big part of my regulation routine for my nervous system. So when I started noticing how much I was struggling to get myself to class, I felt concerned because it was so out of character for me to resist going. But when I looked deeper into it, I realized what was really going on - situational depression.

I had just returned to Australia after reuniting and visiting with my family in Canada after years of separation, and although I knew I would have a hard time integrating back, what I didn’t know was just how painful the experience would actually be. Leaving my family in Canada, including my beloved fur baby Molly, was incredibly emotional for days leading up to my departure flight and continued for several weeks after returning to Australia.

And I will never forget that day when we had to say goodbye.

It was nearing 4:30 pm and we were cutting it close leaving for the airport to make it in time for our evening departing flight. As I walked out the front door of my childhood home I took one last look at the maple tree leaves perfectly scattered all over the front lawn creating a cascade of autumn colours - something I’ve noticed that I really missed about not living in Canada, the changing seasons and the beauty it invites into our lives.

My Dad slowly drove down Maple Way, while I clenched my dog Molly in the back seat trying to take in every bit of her hair, the weight of her body in my lap, and that certain smell of hers that my bedding had adopted during my stay at home. My heart was physically hurting knowing I was leaving her, and my family, behind again to return back to Australia, the country I had not willingly, but circumstantially, immigrated to.

I had just spent nearly 4 months reuniting at home with my family after being separated for 4.5 years, and yet I still wasn’t ready to leave - are we ever really ready to say goodbye to loved ones? Molly is almost 14 years old, and although she’s in good health for her age, I wonder if that was our last walk around the block together. My parents are in their later years, and with my Dad having a terminal lung condition, I wonder if my next visit home will be for a welcomed reunion or a heartbreaking funeral. My brothers are getting on with their lives, and I wonder if the distance will change our relationship over the years and if we will still share the same sense of humour. It’s hard living away from family, it’s harder not knowing if we’ll ever share the same postal code again.

My parents and I, along with Molly and my partner, sat down at Tim Hortons and ordered tea to soak up the last few moments together before we had to make our way through the gates. You know that spot in the airport where you walk as far as you can possibly go to get that last glimpse of your loved one before security stops you? It’s a terrible spot. I said goodbye to my Dad and Molly first, squeezing them so tight that we all had to catch our breath afterward. I quietly whispered some desperate wishes in my Dad’s ear while we embraced, my last aching attempt at making sure he knew just how much I needed him here. Molly was too distracted by all the people at the airport to have one last quiet moment together, so I’m glad we did that earlier in the park, just us two. I told her how much I loved her, and how sorry I was to be leaving her again, while my tears dripped on her little fluffy head.

My Mum came with us to that dreaded final viewing point approaching customs, just in case security made us throw some stuff out, at least she could take it home with her instead. We hugged each other tight, both crying into one another’s shoulder, knowing how painful it is to be living apart - something she knows all too well after having immigrated to Canada from England at the young age of 19; it’s interesting to be walking in similar footsteps as my mother. As her only daughter, it’s difficult not to feel guilty living so far away, and I don’t know if that feeling ever dissipates. She asked when I would be back, I said I don’t know.

We said one last ‘I love you’ and both sobbed as I walked away towards security.

I got through security, packed my laptop back into my bag, and turned around to give my Mum one last wave goodbye, both of us still crying, and her face getting smaller and smaller as I continued walking to the gate. Andy and I started to pick up the pace as we were running late, when he stopped abruptly noticing we had forgotten my carry-on suitcase at the security counter. I looked at him, still with tears in my eyes, and laughed while confessing that I couldn’t be relied upon under such emotional distress. He agreed and ran back up the stairs to get my bag. I’m grateful we can find humour in the hard times, a lifeline for me. Those two flights, totaling 18 hours of air time, were the hardest ones I had to take - this time actively choosing to reside across the world and not knowing when I’d be back home.

I wish we slept more on the long-haul flight, but it was the most turbulent flight we (and the flight attendants I spoke with) had ever experienced because a VOLCANO erupted and altered our flight path - I wish I was joking about this. For 14 hours we were flying into the unknown as we were the first flight to take off after the eruption and the pilots had no clue what was in store. With each strong wave of turbulence, I would grab my partner’s hand and close my eyes praying it would stop. I remember thinking, “I can’t be scared AND sad at the same time, let me cry dammit.” We finally arrived in Brisbane, exhausted and one bag short, unfortunately, and we were greeted with a welcome sign and healthy snacks by a dear close friend. It was really good, and very much needed, to see a friendly familiar face. As we made the drive home, I thought I would be happy to see some familiar landscapes or my favourite shops along the way, but instead, I was completely flat.

We arrived back at our house and when we walked through the front door I immediately noticed a smell, a well-cleaned but vacant house, with none of our personal belongings showcased. It felt sterile, and it didn’t feel like home. I dropped my bags and crawled my way onto the couch in utter exhaustion, while my partner immediately brought out some of our photos to hang up, hoping it would help me feel better seeing our personal things. It didn’t, unfortunately.

I laid horizontal and tears began to fall down my cheeks, and then the sobbing started. I’m here now, I thought, I made it to the other side of the world, and it felt suffocating. I was back in our home, feeling anything but home, and just yearned to be back in my childhood kitchen sitting around the table with my parents drinking tea while Molly sat beneath my feet waiting for crumbs to fall. My partner listened and held me, offering his presence and comfort, knowing there was nothing he could say to take away the pain, or the living grief, I was feeling - it just needed witnessing. I eventually fell asleep for a few hours, thankfully, but the fatigue continued on for days, then weeks.

Choosing a heart-led life isn’t void of grief, it’s often filled with more of it - because sometimes it means letting go of old chapters, embracing the unknown of the current one, and saying goodbye to some we will never read.

Days passed and I unpacked my clothes and neatly folded them in my closet - it was organized for the first time in a while, and I liked that. I put my toothbrush back in the holder next to the sink, my hairbrush in the bottom drawer, and my necklace on the new tray my Mum gifted me that read “Home is where love is.” If that’s true, then why am I here? In Australia?, I thought to myself when I read it one morning.

I never did arrive at an answer.

It had been a week since I had flown home and it was time to get back into the swing of things, back into my regular routine of life here. So that meant back to work, back to caring for the home, and back to my weekly dance classes that I loved. Except this time, I wasn’t looking forward to attending my first class back. As much as I had missed dancing regularly and the community of friends I had made in class, I found myself feeling resistant to showing up.

I drove to the studio anyway.

I got there early and sat in my car in the parking lot for a while. I watched as more students arrived and greeted one another with big smiles as they hurried to put on their shoes and get on the dance floor before class began. I, on the other hand, felt flat, unmotivated, and desperately wanted to drive back home, unseen. I didn’t want to be noticed and I didn’t want to engage in small talk or be asked, “How was your trip?” I didn’t know how to answer that question - how could I? And would they even understand if I did share? Most of them have their family here, they grew up here, and this is their home, so how could they relate to my feelings of grief and melancholy and why bother sharing it with them, I thought. If I did decide to put on a brave face and go inside, I wanted to hide at the back and go unnoticed - an impossible wish.

It took everything in me to not start my car, throw it into reverse, and high-tail it out of there. The class was starting in just a few minutes and I needed to decide if I was staying, or going. I saw more women arrive, some I know and am quite fond of, and yet still, I didn't want to go in. But I took one look at my shoes sitting on the passenger seat next to me and a subtle voice in my head quietly said,

“Just tie your laces.”

I grabbed one shoe, slipped it on, and tied the laces up - then the next. Assignment complete, I got both my shoes on. And it was in that moment, albeit small, that I felt a teeny tiny bit of internal mobilization and motivation, just enough to get me out of the car and into the studio.

Friendly familiar faces came rushing towards me as I walked through those doors and arms wrapped around me tightly while expressing their joy in seeing me back in class. It felt great to see everybody and catch up on months worth of life we had all experienced since I left. And my goodness did it feel good to move my body, to let the material that was stored within me ripple out with each step and hip roll. To my surprise, I picked up the choreography rather quickly considering I hadn’t been in class for months. With sweat pouring off my face, I walked out of there smiling, genuinely, for the first time since arriving back in Australia.

I loved performing this dance routine in a show last year. It feels good to be back.

I’ve been learning that it’s usually the lead-up and anticipation about something that is often the hardest, more so than actually doing the thing. Can you relate? The thought of starting a regular exercise routine? The inspiration to build a new business? The idea of writing a whole book? Big stuff. For me, the thought of being back in Australia and living my life here without my family was overwhelming, but tying my laces up? I can do that.

We’re often told to zoom out and see the bigger picture in life, but sometimes that bigger picture is too much, too big, or too soon. Sometimes we need to break things down into smaller, more attainable, baby steps to get things moving and to build momentum. Zooming out to gain perspective and see an entire vision can be supportive and helpful, but not when our nervous system has limited capacity.

When we zoom in on just the one next step, rather than zooming out at a giant staircase, we can create the space to widen our window of tolerance so that our nervous system can slowly build the capacity to meet each moment - one tolerable step at a time. This can prevent our nervous system from cycling into a collapsed or shut down state, something that often happens when we’ve been holding a lot of sympathetic charge and accumulating stress. Instead of big-picture thinking, consider the smaller picture - the short-term game versus the long one, so to speak.

Instead of envisioning my entire life here in Australia without my family and wondering how many years it will be until I see them again, I can think of the next phone call we have planned and the recent events in our lives I want to share with them.

It took about 6 weeks for me to fully integrate back into my life here, and that’s okay - because it takes as long as it takes, and there is no rush when it comes to tending to ourselves and our nervous systems. My process since returning to Australia last November was about zooming in, not zooming out, and with each little step I took, my capacity grew, and with that, so did my output. I am now dancing in six different classes each week and I have a big performance coming up next month - talk about widening my window of tolerance, right?

In a world that prioritizes productivity and urgency, we get to reclaim our time and attention and move at a pace that supports a sense of sustainable momentum, a pace that creates a rhythm of regulation.

Much like the writing process too right? The thought of writing an entire blog post or a whole book can seem daunting and overwhelming, perhaps even hopeless, but when we break it down into smaller more doable steps it becomes more attainable. I can’t help but think of my Substack journey in much the same way. Instead of focusing on growth and numbers, I am just narrowing in on my one next post, and then the next, and so forth - one step, one post, at a time. Much like showing up to my dance class, just tying my laces, and seeing what happens next.

The invitation….

If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed with a project or situation, get curious about what it may feel like to zoom in, tie your laces, and take the one next tolerable step and see what happens.

I’d love to hear from you.

What is your relationship like with taking smaller steps?

Let's chat in the comments. And if you feel called to, share the next one small step you are taking for yourself, your family, your business, or your creative projects.

Stay wild, and go gently.

Laurita