When Someone Who Loves You Says Enough

By the time I collapsed onto the couch next to Harold, my legs were cramping, and my eyes could barely stay open.

I had started working around 5:30 that morning. Editing stories for the book. Responding to writers. Handling family things. The kind of day where you sit down “just for a little while” and suddenly thirteen hours have disappeared.

I hadn’t eaten much. I hadn’t moved my body. I hadn’t even had a proper glass of water.

That kind of focus takes a toll.

Harold took my hands and looked me straight in the eyes.

“You need to stop.”

It was unusual for him to demand something from.  He knows me too well for that.

I’m stubborn. Independent. When I put my mind to something meaningful, I push myself right to the edge of what I can handle. I always have.

So when he said it, he held my eyes and added,

“I mean it.”

The truth is, this wasn’t just about one long day.

For the past several months, I’ve been running hard. Writing, editing, and working with the women who trusted us with their stories for the book coming out this summer. When you care deeply about something, the hours disappear. You want to do the work well. You want the stories to be honored.

Most people who have ever poured themselves into a meaningful project understand that rhythm.

You sit down to work for a little while, and suddenly the entire day is gone.

The next morning, I was back at the computer again. A few hours in, Harold walked into my office.

My desk was covered with papers. Plants sitting there quietly waiting for water I hadn’t gotten around to giving them yet. This is the kind of mess that makes me a little crazy, but accumulates when I’m deep in work.

He stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

Then he said, very gently,

“What the hell.”

He walked behind my chair and started massaging my shoulders. I can’t find the words to adequately describe how amazing his warm hands felt as they relieved the stress knotted in my body. 

“Honey… you need to slow down.”

This is the thing about Harold.

He is always this way.

Steady. Supportive. And only when necessary, firm. He sees how hard I push myself, and he refuses to pretend it’s fine when it isn’t.

That evening, he made dinner.
He cleaned up afterward.
He fed the dog.

Later, he sat next to me on the couch and massaged my feet and legs. Kissed me and said,

“Go to bed.”

Simple things.

But for someone like me, those things carry weight.

Most of my life, I’ve been the one who keeps going. The one who carries all the things. The one who handles what needs to be handled.

That identity builds a strong life.

But it can also quietly train you to ignore what your body is trying to tell you. And here’s another truth that becomes clearer as we get older.

We can’t run at the same speed forever. Not with the same force. Not with the same duration.

Eventually, the body calls the mandatory meeting whether we want to attend or not.

What I’m learning now is that another kind of strength is required as I get older.

The strength to listen.

The strength to slow down sooner.

And the humility to receive the support that someone who loves you is offering.

People like Harold.

The ones who cook dinner when you’ve pushed too hard.
Who feed dog.
Who rub your tired legs.
Who look you straight in the eye and says,

“That’s enough for today.”

Those people are amazing gifts.

Sometimes they are the quiet wind beneath our wings. Mine is, and I am grateful.

Love is ALL there is
Diana