Time to Smarten Up

I’d like to think that since retiring from policing, I’ve settled down, calmed in ways that once felt out of reach for me.

The constant pressure is gone. The internal politics, the external scrutiny, the relentless social media criticism, it’s no longer part of my daily life.

Since retiring, I’ve taken the time to “do the work,” so to speak. Therapy. EMDR. Eating well. Writing. Walking. Trying to take care of both my mind and my body in ways I couldn’t before.

Research shows that practices like trauma therapy and regular movement can significantly reduce stress reactivity over time, but as I was reminded this week, growth doesn’t mean immunity.

Because despite all of that, this week I found myself unraveling.

There was no major crisis. No emergency. Just a series of frustrations involving things I couldn’t do myself, situations where I had to rely on others. And when things didn’t go smoothly (even when I was paying for them to), I could feel it building.

The irritation. The anxiety. The anger.

It crept in slowly, then all at once.

I felt like I could snap at anyone, for anything.

Now, to be fair, I’m also navigating some hormonal and menopausal shifts (a topic for another day), and research tells us those changes can amplify emotional intensity and reduce stress tolerance. Still, I knew what was happening inside me and that almost made it worse.

Because I couldn’t seem to stop it.

I tried everything I “should” do: Deep breathing. Reframing. Going for walks. Talking it out. Settling my nervous system.

None of it worked.

And then, in the middle of one of my irritated, foot-stomping errands, something shifted.

I was leaving a store when I noticed a mother and her young son walking in front of me he was maybe about seven years old. Something about the way he moved caught my attention.

He was wearing braces on both legs, carefully lifting each foot as he made his way forward.

I slowed down. I didn’t pass them.

But what struck me even more than how he walked… was how he talked.

He was full of joy.

Excitedly chatting about something coming up in his life, I don’t even know what but his voice was bright, animated, completely unbothered by the effort each step required.

Their car was parked next to mine, so I paused and gave him space as he worked to climb in on his own. His mom waited patiently, letting him do it himself.

And then, with pure pride, he said: “I’m up and in my car seat, ready to go!”

I got into my car.

And then the tears came.

What was I so angry about? Why had I let something relatively small take over my entire nervous system?

Here was this little boy, decades younger than me, navigating a reality I’ve never had to experience. And yet, he was filled with joy.

Completely.

And there I was, consumed by frustration.

I needed to smarten up.

I can walk, without braces, without assistance. Yes, I live with MS, and maybe one day that will change. But right now, at 55, I have a level of physical freedom this child may never have known.

And still, he was the one radiating happiness.

I drove away with tears streaming down my face but also with a sense of gratitude. Gratitude that I had been irritated enough to run that errand. Gratitude that our paths crossed. Gratitude for the perspective I didn’t know I needed.

There’s a saying I’ve shared many times over the years: If everyone threw their problems into a circle, and you could see everyone else’s, most of us would fight to get our own back.

This week, I understood that in a much deeper way.

The world feels heavy right now. The economy is tight. The environment feels uncertain. Conflicts drag on. Violence can feel close, constant, overwhelming.

It’s a lot.

But maybe we’re not meant to solve everything all at once.

Maybe the world gets a little better when each of us focuses on what’s in front of us, our reactions, our frustrations, our small corner of influence. Research in psychology often points to this idea: that a sense of control over our immediate environment reduces a feeling of being overwhelmed and builds our ability to cope.

Maybe that’s how change happens. Slowly. Quietly. Collectively.

To that little boy, who will never know the impact he had on me…..thank you.

In a moment when nothing else worked, your joy reached through my frustration and reminded me of what matters.

And somehow, that was exactly what I needed.