I was clipping Beignet’s leash at 6:45 a.m., standing by the same two library tote bags on the back-door hooks, when my left knee gave its familiar little protest. The air already felt like wet cotton, that Metairie “soup weather” that makes your hair and your patience rise at the same time. I did what I always do, I shifted my weight, tightened the clip and told myself, quietly, walk it off.
That phrase has followed me for decades. It showed up in childhood scraped knees and in grown-up headaches, too. It lived in my old work voice at the East Bank Regional Library, calm at the desk, laminated schedule in hand, with a line of people who needed answers, forms and someone who would not fall apart. It also lived in my marriage, the way Danny jokes when he is tense and I start planning the month like I can tape it down.
I used to take pride in it. There is a certain glow you get from being the one who “handles things.” You feel sturdy. You feel necessary. I had a whole identity built on being useful, from my first steady job at Winn-Dixie in 1972 to four decades of reference questions and overdue notices. If I could locate the right resource quickly, I could keep everyone safe and calm, including myself.
Retirement has been good for me and it has also been rude. You get more quiet. You get more space. And all that space has a way of making feelings walk right in, take a seat and put their feet on the coffee table. I found that I could still do tasks, even big ones, without much trouble. What I struggled with was sitting in a hard moment without trying to fix it, tidy it, or hurry it along.
One Friday, over coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde in City Park with my friend Renee Landry, I heard myself say, “People are so sensitive these days.” Renee, who spent her career as a school counselor and can give you a look that feels like a gentle hand on your shoulder, tilted her head and said, “Or people are finally paying attention to pain.” Powdered sugar drifted onto my napkin like snow on a hurricane map.
That is how I ended up here, thinking about a simple old line and what it trained me to do. It taught me to keep moving. It taught me to look fine. It also taught me to skip my own needs so smoothly that I barely noticed. If you grew up with “walk it off” in the air, you might recognize that kind of resilience. You might also recognize how lonely it can feel inside your own calm.
1. The day I heard “walk it off” come out of my own mouth
I remember when it happened, clear as the smell of sunscreen in a Gulf Shores rental. Theo, my kinetic grandson, was at our house in Metairie, tearing through the living room like he had a tiny engine in his shoes. He bumped the corner of the coffee table and crumpled to the floor, face red, breath caught. Before I even got to him, the words were already on my tongue, practiced and ready.
“Hey, buddy, walk it off,” I said. I heard myself say it the way you hear a song you have not played in years and you still know every word. Theo looked up at me with those wide eyes that hold a whole weather system. He did not want a pep talk. He wanted help making sense of what he felt.
Camille, my oldest, was right there. She is the one who wants direct emotional language and she has asked me for it more than once. She said, gently, “Mama, he needs a minute.” I felt my cheeks warm. I wanted to argue. I wanted to say I was trying to help. I also wanted to rewind time and speak like someone who grew up in a house where tears were treated like a normal bodily function.
Here is the thing, I meant it kindly. In my head, “walk it off” meant, “You are okay. You can handle this.” It also meant, “We do not stop the day for feelings.” And when you say that to a child, or to yourself, you teach a particular lesson. You teach that pain belongs in the background.
Years ago, I was proud of how quickly I could recover and keep moving. That skill served me in hurricanes and long library shifts and the post-Katrina repair years, when everything felt like a list that never ended. Today, I see another side of that skill. You can become so good at minimizing your discomfort that you lose your own internal map.
That day with Theo, I sat on the rug anyway. I put a hand on his back and waited until his breathing slowed. I said, “That hurt. I am here.” It felt like speaking a new language with an old accent. It also felt like a small repair, the kind you do in the moment, without making a speech about it.
2. My body kept the receipts
My left knee has a memory. It remembers the stairs. It remembers storm fronts. It remembers April 8, 2018, when I had that arthroscopy and learned what it feels like to need help with simple things. I had always been the one who carried the bags, the one who “managed.” Physical pain forced me to receive care and I hated it at first.
There was a morning during recovery when Danny offered to refill my coffee. He was trying to be sweet and I snapped at him about how he was holding the mug. He made a little joke to soften it. I started planning, “Next time, we should set everything up the night before.” We did our usual dance. Then I cried in the pantry, quietly, between the canned tomatoes and the storm shutters checklist.
If you are like me, your body has its own filing system. It stores the things you hurry past. When you train yourself to push through, your body often keeps sending reminders. They can show up as tension, headaches, stomach tightness, that 3:00 a.m. wake-up where your mind starts running inventory like a librarian checking shelves.
Dr. Marcus Bennett, my neighbor and an internist at Ochsner, once told me something that landed in my head with the weight of a textbook. We were chatting by the driveway, the way people do in our neighborhood, weather first, then life. I was worrying about my borderline blood pressure readings from September 2024 and he said, “Your body is always communicating.” He did not say it dramatically. He said it like a fact, like telling me the bridge is open.
I started noticing my patterns. If I skipped lunch because I was “busy,” I got sharp. If I agreed to a last-minute plan change, my chest got tight and I acted like I was fine. If I spent a long quiet afternoon with no clear task, I found myself cleaning one kitchen counter too thoroughly, the way a person rearranges books by color even when she knows better.
My body kept the receipts, even when my mouth kept saying, “I am fine.” And once I noticed that, I could do something different. I could treat the signal like information, instead of an interruption. I could slow down long enough to ask, “What is this trying to tell me?”
3. How toughness training shaped my relationship with pain
It took me a long time to realize that toughness training does not always make you braver. Sometimes it makes you faster. Faster to dismiss, faster to perform, faster to turn discomfort into productivity. I can take a hard feeling and fold it into a chore like a fitted sheet, quick, tight and a little angry about it.
I learned early that “being helpful” kept the peace. In my family, you handled your part and kept moving. You did not complain. You did not linger. You learned the art of swallowing your feelings with a sip of sweet tea and getting back to work. For years, I thought that was maturity.
When you grow up like that, pain becomes something you manage quietly. You learn to function with it. You also learn to treat your needs like optional extras, like those little baskets at the Dorignac’s checkout with the fancy chocolates, lovely, unnecessary, easy to skip.
I saw this clearly with Julian, my middle child. Our best conversations happen side-by-side, doing tasks with low eye contact. One Saturday, he came over and helped Danny with a small yard project. I made sandwiches, watched them work and felt proud of my little system. Then Julian said, casually, “Mom, you ever get tired?” I laughed, too quickly. I said, “Everybody gets tired.” He nodded and I could tell he meant something more tender.
Psychology has a simple way of describing what I lived for years. When you regularly push feelings down, you can still look steady on the outside. Inside, your nervous system keeps working. Your body carries the load and your relationships can carry it too. You may also lose practice with naming your needs, because you have spent years practicing being the reliable one.
That was my wake-up moment. I could see how my “toughness” showed up as distance. It looked like competence. It felt like being alone in a room full of people who loved me.
4. The kind of resilience that looks calm and feels far away
There is a type of resilience that wins you compliments. People say, “You are so strong.” People say, “You always handle things.” They say it at church events at St. Clement of Rome Parish and they say it in the library volunteer room on Mondays, when I show up with my tote bag and my calm desk voice. You hear those words and you stand a little straighter.
I admit, I liked that role. I still do, sometimes. There is safety in being the one who has it together. Yet that same role can make you feel far away from your own experience. You can go through your day smoothly and realize, later, that you never checked in with yourself at all.
My friend Patricia Gomez, my old library colleague, meets me at East Bank Regional about once a month “just to browse.” We wander the aisles like we own the place, because in a way, we used to. One day she said, “Retirement is strange, huh? You can finally feel things.” She said it like she was talking about a new genre of book. I laughed, then I felt tears prick, right there between Fiction and Large Print.
Resilience becomes complicated when it depends on disconnection. You can keep functioning while your inner world goes quiet. Over time, that quiet can turn into numbness, irritability, or a sense that you are watching your own life through a window. You might also feel guilty for feeling bad, because you have been trained to “be grateful” and “keep moving.”
When I started paying attention, I noticed how my disconnection showed up in small ways. I would respond to Sophie’s voice notes with a practical text. I would answer Camille’s emotional question with logistics. I would hear Danny’s stress joke and counter with a budget plan. It was my old reflex, fixing instead of feeling.
These days, I try a different form of resilience. I practice staying present. I practice saying one real sentence. I practice letting the moment be messy, then trusting that we can take it one step at a time.
5. The “emotion words” I learned at 72, one coffee ring at a time
My kitchen has a drawer of index cards with old recipe notes and phone numbers and it also has a stack of old circulation notes I brought home when I retired. They have coffee rings and little scribbles, the way a long career leaves a paper trail. One afternoon, I sat at the table, WWNO low for company and I wrote three words on a sticky note: “sad,” “worried,” “tired.” I felt ridiculous. I also felt relief.
Here is what surprised me. I did not lack feelings. I lacked language. I had spent decades describing what needed to be done. I had less practice describing what it felt like to be me while doing it. When you grow up with “toughen up,” you get fluent in action words. Emotion words can feel like a foreign currency.
Years ago, I would have called a hard day “busy.” Now I try to be more specific. Sometimes I feel overloaded. Sometimes I feel lonely in a full house. Sometimes I feel resentful because I agreed to something too quickly. Naming it does not fix it instantly. It gives me a handle, like putting a label on a file folder.
Renee helped me with this, of course. On a Friday at Cafe du Monde, she said, “Pick one word that fits. You can change it later.” That took the pressure off. I did not have to deliver a perfect emotional essay. I could offer a draft.
When you give yourself permission to name what is happening, your needs come into view. Hunger. Rest. Reassurance. Time. A boundary. You start to realize you have been running a whole internal system without checking the gauges. You also notice how small adjustments can make a big difference. A snack before you snap. A walk before you plan. A pause before you agree.
I still keep those sticky notes sometimes. They end up under a magnet clip holding three overlapping grocery lists. That feels about right for my life. Feelings and errands, side by side, both real.
6. My three-question check-in for Camille, Julian and Sophie
Sunday late afternoon is my family call window. I reset the calendar for the week, I look at the weather and I decide what I can offer without getting snappy later. I used to treat these calls like mini staff meetings. Who needs what, who is doing what, who has eaten, who has a plan. That approach kept me busy. It also kept me a little hidden.
Camille told me, more than once, “Mama, I want to hear your feelings.” She means it. She wants the simple sentence. She wants me to show up as a person, not just a helper. The first time I tried, I felt my throat tighten. I wanted to switch to advice. I held on anyway.
So I made myself a tiny routine, three questions I can ask that keep me close. If you grew up with “walk it off,” routines help. They give you a script that includes emotion without requiring you to improvise a whole new personality.
Question one: “What felt heavy this week?” I ask it and I wait. If Julian answers with something practical, I accept that and I stay curious. If Camille answers with something emotional, I breathe and listen. If Sophie sends a voice note instead of calling, I listen twice, the way you reread a paragraph that matters.
Question two: “What helped, even a little?” This is where resilience gets real. You look for the handrail, the small support, the friend who checked in, the nap that saved the day. It reminds you that coping is made of tiny things.
Question three: “Do you want comfort, ideas, or company?” That question changed my life. It stops my reflex to fix. It tells my kids I respect their needs. It also tells me what role to play, so I do not perform the wrong one.
7. When pain turns into irritability and what I do next
There was a time when I thought irritability meant I was being “difficult.” I would shame myself, then try to become extra efficient to make up for it. These days, I treat irritability like smoke. Something is burning. It might be physical pain. It might be emotional strain. It might be hunger. It might be a boundary I forgot to set.
My clearest sign is my tone. I get brisk. I get overly precise. I start talking like a schedule. Danny will ask, “You want to go for a drive?” and I will answer with a list of reasons it is impractical. He will crack a joke. I will counter with math. We both think we are protecting our life and we both feel a little alone in the process.
When that happens, I do a simple reset. I call it my “bench check,” because it often happens on my Lafreniere Park loop. I stop at the same bench, let Beignet sniff around and I ask myself: “What hurts?” I mean physically and emotionally. Then I ask: “What do I need in the next 30 minutes?” Water, food, a quieter room, a kinder conversation, a slower pace.
I also use a small sentence that keeps me honest without turning it into drama. I tell Danny, “Let me think a minute.” Or, “That is fair.” Or, “I hear you.” Those phrases buy me time. They keep me from snapping. They also signal that I am trying.
For you, the reset might look different. It could be stepping outside for two minutes. It could be unclenching your jaw. It could be putting a hand on your chest and taking three steady breaths. The key is treating the irritability as information. Your body and your emotions are trying to get your attention and you deserve to listen.
Sometimes, I still miss it. I will find myself cleaning that same counter too thoroughly, like I can scrub my way back to calm. When I catch it, I laugh a little, dry and gentle. Then I drink water, text Camille a simple check-in and let the moment be human.
8. My Sunday call window, with room for the real sentence
Last Sunday, I sat in my chair in the living room, the one in the left corner near the lamp, glasses on one coaster, remote on the other. The house was quiet and I could hear Danny in the kitchen, moving around, the small sounds of a long marriage. WWNO was low. My phone was face down, because I knew I would pick it up too soon and start managing.
When I finally called Camille, she answered with that Mid-City background noise, a little traffic, a little life. She told me about work stress and Theo’s big feelings. I listened and I did not rush to solve. Then she paused and said, “How are you, Mama?” That question used to make me panic, because it asked for something I did not practice.
I felt the old reflex rise, “Fine.” I felt the old script, “No rush.” I also felt something else, a kind of bravery that looks plain. I said, “I have been feeling tired and a little tender. I miss y’all.” The words were simple. My throat tightened anyway.
Sophie sent a voice note later, a little Houston Heights hum behind her words, plus a photo of Marco mid-toddler chaos, perfect timing as always. I sent a voice note back, not a polished text. I said, “I loved hearing your voice.” Julian called after dinner, warm and sporadic like he is. We talked while he put away dishes and I told him my knee had been acting up. He said, “You resting?” I told him, “I am trying.”
That is what I am learning at 72. My family does not need perfect advice. They need my attention. They also need my real sentences, even the small ones. Especially the small ones.
When you grow up with “walk it off,” you can learn a new way of being. You can keep your competence and add tenderness. You can keep your grit and add rest. You can let your own pain count, right alongside everyone else’s.
Tonight, Beignet will circle his bed twice and sigh like an old man and I will probably check the weather one more time. Then I will try to ask myself one honest question before I turn out the light. What do I need, while I am still awake enough to hear the answer?
Note from Cottonwood Psychology:
At Cottonwood Psychology, we let real authors share their real-life stories and struggles and we explain how these psychological concepts affect us in daily life.
- Emotion suppression can look like “handling it,” and it can also raise stress inside the body and strain connection with other people. Psychologist James J. Gross has written that, “Suppression also increases physiological responding for suppressors and their social partners.” This helps explain why Elodie can appear steady while her body and her relationships, still carry the load. Source
- When you repeatedly push feelings down, you can lose access to the support you actually need. Research by Sanjay Srivastava, Maya Tamir, Kelly M. McGonigal, Oliver P. John and James J. Gross found that “Both components of suppression predicted lower social support, less closeness to others and lower social satisfaction.” That fits the pattern Elodie notices with her adult children, where practical replies can create emotional distance over time. Source
- Many people raised on “toughen up” absorb the idea that emotions deserve criticism or dismissal. In a study by Rita Sebastião, David Dias Neto and Ana Nunes da Silva, “Negative evaluation of emotion was the strongest mediator in the relationship between emotional invalidation and psychological distress.” This sheds light on why someone might feel shame for needing comfort, even when their life looks stable from the outside. Source
- Emotional invalidation in childhood can shape how you respond to other people’s pain later on, including empathy and nervous system reactions. Kirsten Arnett, Alexandra Roach, Meredith Elzy and Laura Jelsone-Swain reported, “Our findings suggest that perceived childhood EI may decrease empathizing abilities and influence neural responses to the painful experiences of others.” Elodie’s shift toward naming feelings and offering presence supports empathy skills that grow through practice. Source
- Simple check-in routines, like “comfort, ideas, or company,” work because they reduce autopilot behavior. They create a pause between a trigger and the reflex to fix and that pause makes room for choice. Over time, these micro-pauses can support healthier emotion regulation and stronger family connection, especially for people who learned to perform resilience.
- Body-based signals often show up first when emotions have been minimized for years, including tension, irritability, sleep disruption and “always-on” alertness. The research above connects suppression and invalidation with distress and social consequences and Elodie’s story shows how listening to the body can become an early warning system. That kind of awareness supports gentler boundaries, more direct emotional language and better day-to-day coping.