I have too much on.

It may not seem like a lot to many of you, but it is too much for me.

There is writing, of course, writing this my priority, our weekly little one-sided chats.

And of course, there is the puppy, who is settling into a routine – not my routine – but a routine I can work around as such.

Then there are puppy classes and homework and, as a diligent student, I want to do it all.

I also signed up for a mediation leaders course, which is stressing me out as I am behind already, and nothing says relaxation like being behind a deadline.

And I want to do more yoga, try to do more reading, get the garden going, go buy courgette plants after the slugs ate mine, and take my shamefully unread library books back, and visit a friend who is sick, and clean the house, and tidy the front garden, maybe iron some clothes.

My stress levels are bubbling over. I can feel the anxiety hissing in my ear, the cortisol pulsing through my veins. Something has got to give. My health, always a little delicate (about the only thing about me that is) cannot take the strain. I gave up my Welsh class at the beginning of the year because it was too much and have simply replaced it with more stress.

I am cursed with the 21^st-century obsession with being busy. Even with a chronic health condition that demands I lie down for half of the day, I push to squeeze more in, take on more than I can handle and refuse until breaking point to cut myself free.

Why is this?

How did our worth get so entangled in how much we could do? Like some puritanical capitalist mantra, I must be productive, I must be doing, I must do better, I find myself dragged along in my life, chasing after what? Approval? Betterment? The thrill of having done it all?

Fuck that shit!

So, I am cutting back. Long gone is the housework, a quick tidy-up as the puppy demands. Cooking is a pared-back affair, enough work for the joy of eating but nothing fancy or refined.

It is hard to decide on puppy versus meditation classes. Each will make my life richer and fuller in the future but my drive to be perfect is softened by a need to stay calm. Instead, I breathe, skip the optional homework, and feel my shoulders relax.

I remind myself of the six-month rule – will it matter in six months if I don’t do this task today? Almost everything, with the exception of courgette plants, can go. The library police are not waiting at the door, demanding a full three-page review of each book I haven’t read, the front garden continues without my tender ministrations and my clothes remain crumpled and creased.

Am I failing at being a grown-up?

I don’t think I care.

I can feel my stress levels soothing, just writing about all this shit. So, thank you dear reader for being there for me to tell.

Now, there is a terrible smell of wee and the washing machine is overflowing, and someone has ordered 3 tons of marshmallows to be delivered to my door and I need to clear a cupboard.

Stress-free, right?

And deep breath in.

Have a lovely day!