I press the number 4 in the elevator, turn left twice, and I'm back in the corridors of my mother's workplace - a room full of women who built something real while somehow also building a life around it. When she retired, she asked me a question I still can't fully answer for her. This is what stayed with me after a conversation about flexibility this week.
I grew up believing that rest had to be earned. For me, there was a magic number: 38.4 — sick enough to be allowed to stop, but not too sick to enjoy being cared for. Years later, I can see this pattern clearly in myself and in my coaching work:
so many of us learned to rest only when our bodies, minds, or lives force us to.
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