ArcaMax

There's a word we should live again. I would like to be whelmed and not overwhelmed. Not underwhelmed and just whelmed. It's the state of being fully present in the flood of life, not drowning in it but not standing on dry land either.

That's where I want to live most days, especially on days with one-on-one meetings, but from flow to overflow is quick. I've learned that when I sit across from someone, I can't fake presence. It isn't in me to hold back or half-listen anymore. I live with my full attention, and for me, it's authenticity in action.

But when you offer everything, you don't get to keep much for yourself. It's likely why we are so used to being overwhelmed instead of just whelmed.

It's like carving a pumpkin. Every time I sit with someone, I scoop out a little more of myself. The walls grow thinner with each cut. Light shines through, and I can carve in new shapes and designs, but the structure that holds it together is fragile. If I make too many cuts, the pumpkin can cave in.

That's the quiet cost of authenticity. You can't both shine and stay whole without replenishing. Each stage demands more of you, new rules to follow, and fresh stamina to keep up. I see it in my son as he moves into the next age level in his soccer league.

This next level demands more from him, an understanding that it takes discipline to run the field, not just enthusiasm. That's how one-on-one meetings feel to me. They demand more than enthusiasm. They require a kind of learning: how to listen deeper, how to hold silence, how to resist the urge to steer someone else's story. It's a league of its own. And like my son, I'm still learning the rules.

After days stacked with meetings, I'm often semi-catatonic when my husband walks through the door. He gets home, and I've got nothing left to give, barely able to form a sentence. I sit on the couch like a carved-out pumpkin, walls thin, light dimmed. It makes me feel guilty. Shouldn't I save something for him? For our family? Shouldn't I ration myself better?

But mornings are different. My husband cooks breakfast while I download everything onto him, the way you empty a phone into the cloud at the end of the week. The fragments of conversations, the small breakthroughs, the things that moved me or haunted me. He stands there at the stove while I unravel it all, and I come back to myself in the telling. That's how I grow new walls again. That's how I refill.

But I long for the boundless energy that I somehow remember having. I look at people who seem to bounce from meeting to meeting, who don't seem to carry the residue of every conversation with them. I envy that lightness. I am not light. I am heavy with presence, weighted by what people share with me.

But maybe that's the gift. My son can't play soccer without rules, and I can't connect with people without a weight. The weight is what makes it real. It's what makes someone feel heard, not managed.

Living in the whelm is not easy. It's tiring, sometimes unbearably so. But there's beauty in it, too. A carved pumpkin may not last forever, but while it stands, it glows.

And in the glow, I remember why I give so much of myself in the first place: because people deserve authenticity. Because my family deserves to see me live in a way that honors connection. Because my husband deserves to be trusted with my unfiltered self, both when I am empty and when I am full.

The whelm doesn't last, but neither does an overwhelmed state. No state of being lasts forever. So while I'm in it, I'm learning the rules, carving carefully, and letting the light through.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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