Going to the Northwoods—or Taking Time to Breathe

By Elizabeth Waterstraat

A few weeks ago, I found myself in my car, without time to breathe. It was 9:26 am, and I was driving to a doctor’s appointment after sneaking a 30-minute run.

The morning had been the usual hustle of wake up, empty the dishwasher, breakfast, brush teeth, get kids off to remote learning, drop another off at preschool, work, phone calls, housework, more calls.

As I pulled into my parking space, already feeling the weight of the day, I promised myself that I would take a moment to sit there and breathe. Literally: just take a few deep breaths.

Shifting the car into park, I look at my watch. 9:28 am. I had no time to breathe. I rushed to make it on time to the appointment.

As mothers, business women, adults, this is our everyday. We live between the spaces of other people, a never-ending to do list stuffed with the tasks of daily living. Seeking those moments we can have to ourselves. At times we do it all with a graceful ease. We make it look easy.

Other times, the constraints are suffocating. This morning, I had 4 people talking to me at once, each expressing something utterly important to them: I don’t like my winter coat, We are out of bread, Can you pick me up at the car dealership, I ordered him a new hat.

Time stopped.

I could hear each demand, trying to quickly triage what each was saying and who needed attention first. I uttered quick responses, took kid #3 into the car, sat there for a moment and thought – what just happened there?  How could everyone need something from me all at the same time? What did they need? What do I need? 

If perchance you drive by my house at random times during the day, you might see me standing on my doorstep. I’ve learned there are times I need to simply open the door and go to a new place. I close the door behind me. I create separation between in there and everyone else’s needs and take a moment to stand by myself. I feel the crisp air.  I take a few breaths. The doorstep is my quiet, alternate reality. I escape.

Years ago, I went to therapy. It was the best $20 a week I’ve ever spent on myself. Like sitting down with a friend, minus the coffee, talking about ME. Feeding that internal need of can we talk about me?  Have we talked about me yet?  You’re good, right, so let’s talk about me already. Bless my therapist. He was a grandfatherly man who offered compassion, empathy, and wisdom.

I was sharing my struggle with something related to daily demands and life and normal human angst about balancing life, house, work, relationships. I felt guilty for being overwhelmed, selfish for needing space. I chose this life. I shouldn’t need things like quiet, space, time for myself.

Liz, there’s an apartment in the city, with parquet floors overlooking Lake Michigan and a record player with softly playing jazz. I looked at him puzzled, no idea where he was taking this.

It’s the apartment in my head. I go there when I need to escape my reality. Liz, you need an apartment in your head.

The idea seemed absurd. Plus, the last thing I wanted was yet another place I had to clean because if I’m going to an apartment in my head, it’s going to be tidy and someone has to be responsible for that.

So we settled. I would escape to a coffee shop.

When life overwhelms me, when I need space to think, to breathe, without judgement, without justifying it, I go to the coffee shop in my head. It’s somewhere in the Pacific northwest, surrounded by tall pines, named something very Pacificy-northwest like Northwoods, with large windows overlooking the water. The tables are made of amber pine. Steam comes off of a mug of dark roast that always stays at the perfect temperature. I settle in at a table. Sometimes I’m writing in a notebook. Other times just looking out at the water. Demands melt away. It’s an immediate reset, a deposit of energy to deal with whatever needs dealing with.  

Better yet, it’s my escape. I know when life becomes too much, I can go there – any time of the day. Without needing permission.

These days, I find that simply standing on my doorstep is the cue: I walk through the door of Northwoods. I relax. I find time to take a breath. We all need this space. We deserve it. Giving yourself permission to pause is one of the most respectful things you can do for yourself.

During one particularly challenging time in life, I found myself in Northwoods every day. A frequent customer, taking overt advantage of the free refill policy. That coffee shop became a source of calm and strength. So much so that I didn’t want to forget it.

As a reminder, I found a picture of what I imagined it would look like, making the opening screen of my laptop. To remind myself that I can and should go there every day. It is not a sign of weakness. Rather, it is an investment in my strength.

One morning, I opened up my laptop to start work,  when my husband walked into my office.

What is that?  He asked, referring to the picture of a coffee shop on the screen.

Oh that?  I brushed it off. Nothing. Just some photo from the internet.

It’s my place, I thought. My escape. He didn’t need to know that I would likely go there later in the day. Walk through the door of Northwoods  Sip a mug of dark roast. Look out into the water. And find the peace and energy to mobilize my resources to make it through the day.

Do you have a Northwoods you escape to find time to breathe? If so, where?