There’s an elephant in my bedroom
When overwhelm moves in, and the only way through is one small step at a time
The clothes weren’t in boxes. They were everywhere.
Not mine. Not even ours, really. Things Mum no longer needs. Things that don’t quite belong to anyone anymore. Outdated equipment. Half-sorted piles. “I’ll deal with that later” decisions that had quietly multiplied.
They’d spread across the bedroom, onto the landing, into the spare room, like they’d taken up residence without my permission.
For the last couple of months, getting into bed has meant climbing over things. Carefully placing each foot. Trying not to trip. Trying not to stub my toe (at least once unsuccessfully!) on stuff that shouldn’t be there in the first place.
And all the while, life hasn’t paused.
There’s been care to organise. Appointments. Phone calls. Forms. People coming and going. Extra washing. Extra bedding. And the quiet, constant work of making sure everything, and everyone, is okay.
Somewhere in the middle of that, I disappeared a bit.
My routines slipped. My eating went off track. My migraines came back. I had a familiar tightness in my neck and head that said, "This is too much now."
I kept thinking about that phrase: ‘eat the frog’. Do the hardest thing first.
But the truth is, I didn’t want to. And if I’m really honest, I couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just one frog.
It was a whole room full of things. A backlog of life. An emotional weight that doesn’t fit neatly into a task list.
And then, somewhere between stepping over another pile and feeling completely done in, I remembered that other phrase, the slightly odd one about eating an elephant.
One bite at a time.
Which is just weird, then you realise there’s an actual elephant in your bedroom.
Yesterday, I didn’t eat the frog.
But I did take a few bites of the elephant.
Not all of it. Not even close. But enough to make a path. Enough to reach the bed without climbing.
Enough to feel a tiny weight lifted.
And alongside all of that, there was a moment I’m definately not proud of.
Mum asked me for something, something small, and I was irritable. Short and grumpy.
Not my usual self.
And I felt it straight away. That jolt of, this isn’t who I want to be.
But maybe that’s part of this, too.
Because underneath the irritation wasn’t anger at her. It was overwhelm. It was the weight of too many things, carried for too long, with not enough space to put them down.
It was a signal.
Not a flattering one. But an honest one.
There’s a kind of work that doesn’t get counted.
The noticing. The remembering. The anticipating. The holding of it all, so that other people don’t have to.
And sometimes, that invisible load spills over.
Not because we don’t care. But because we’ve been caring so much for so long.
So maybe this week isn’t about eating frogs.
Maybe it’s about recognising when the elephant has quietly moved in.
Maybe it’s about admitting that you can’t clear the whole room in one go.
Maybe it’s just about making a path.
A small one. A doable one.
One bite. Then another.
And calling that enough.