To apply for disability, I’ve been asked to sort, interpret, organize, and handwrite a novel documenting the limitations that make completing that assignment impossible.

Cognitive gymnastics with a cognitive processing disability. Followed by a written endurance event for the hands.

Please see the qualifying-round photo.

Would you care to shine a flashing strobe light directly into my eyes and have me spin in circles while I complete the paperwork as well? My vestibular migraine does love to be center stage.

Picture the woman opening this envelope.

Political science degree. A career spent untangling complex problems, improving systems, and helping people find their way through overwhelming situations. She understands exactly how a broken process transfers its costs to the person trying to use it.

Now look at her hand.

Same woman. Same knowledge. Understanding the assignment doesn’t give her the capacity to complete it.

The online system locked me out. I asked for help. They mailed me the obstacle in paperback.

Somewhere in this stack is supposed to be the key to my next chapter. First, I have to assemble it myself.

You might as well have sent confetti.

Actually, confetti would be easier. I could use tongs and tape.

This comes after years of diagnostics. Tens of thousands of dollars in testing and imaging. Dozens of specialists and other healthcare providers.

Hundreds of hours. Decades of savings.

Every new attempt brings hope. Another call, another explanation, another script—and too often, the same dead end.

Eventually, you brace before you open the envelope.

This morning, I spoke with the attorney who will be helping me through this.

🗝️ The key turned. The door actually opened.

My assignment now is to document what coping, adjusting, and adapting have cost me—without immediately adding, “But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

It’s not that I can’t be negative. I need scope and permission.

My negativity now has a project charter.

Staying hopeful through a crisis takes work. Being required to inventory every painful detail while trying to stay hopeful is a hell of an assignment.

In The Cardinal Rule, I talk about entering the swamp of grief, extracting the nutrients, and returning to dry land. Having someone provide the structure and scope gives me a map—and a way home.

My grandmother always said:

Pretend that you are a bird flying high over the situation. What do you see?

Today, I could see how often I’ve turned evidence that I need help into another assignment for myself.

I got us through the red. Out of the turbulence. Leveled off. Now I’m handing the flight controls to a licensed pilot.

Just because I’ve landed a plane during an emergency without training doesn’t make me a pilot.

Nor do I want to be one.

There’s still a process ahead. But I can step out of managing this crisis alone.

This is the yellow zone. The space between surviving and thriving. Enough room for grief, relief, and the possibility of growth.

Apparently, I’m retiring for medical reasons.

That will take time to sink in.

But for the first time ever, considering who I am without a career doesn’t bring anxiety or a loss of identity.

It helps me breathe.