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Some days leave me energized. Others leave me completely drained. And a few, like yesterday, do both. For a long time, I thought the difference was how much I had to do. I’m beginning to think it’s something else completely.

The Day Everything Felt Like Events Were Chosen for Me

We recently accepted a pet-sitting opportunity for friends traveling to Europe. We kept Ajax’s best friend with us for a week, anticipating their return on Tuesday evening. I’d set up a fasting blood draw for the following morning between clients, wanting to get it done before my longer hikes begin in August.

However, late Tuesday evening, we heard that their flight was rerouted, leaving us watching their dog an extra evening. Normally, no problem. But the fasting blood draw at 9:30 meant a) no usual morning workout, b) no 5 a.m. breakfast beforehand, and c) only water (I prefer electrolytes) until afterwards. The combination of a fasting blood draw, extended dog care, and back-to-back clients left me feeling like the morning was spiraling out of control.

The Small Choices I Still Controlled

As my first client arrived, I realized I could not control whether the dog barked or whined, nor could I control my client’s reaction to having a different dog nearby. But I reminded myself that I still had choices. I could control how I reacted. What exercises my clients did. And whether I got help from my husband or daughter who were still sleeping.

I tried a new movement with each early morning client. Knowing the guest dog was not accustomed to clients like Ajax was, I sequestered her so she wouldn’t get in the way. And as soon as her owners came to get her, I mixed up an ice-cold protein shake to drink following the blood draw.

The Pattern I Couldn’t Ignore

Those tiny choices didn’t change the morning. They changed how I experienced it. They changed me. I’ve realized over the past week that it isn’t work that drains me. It isn’t added responsibility for a dog. It isn’t recording meals on Cronometer. What drains me is feeling like I have no choice.

Whether we’re talking about how I grieve vs. how someone else thinks I should, what my work should look like, how I lead, eat, or relate to others, if I feel like I’m living a life of “should” — i.e. my own choices have disappeared beneath everyone else’s needs — I shut down. This idea is not new to the past week; I’ve written about them before.

When I received unexpected criticism after a Tuesday morning hike to Ridge Lake, I couldn’t choose the feedback. But I could choose what I did with it. That choice ultimately helped shape future club policy. I can choose how to remember Ajax. How I spend my free time. How I craft a client session.

And on a Thursday hike to McClellan Butte, I could choose a backup plan if conditions worsened, give hikers options, and decide where and when we rested. Life has been reminding me of the same thing.

A Different Question

In each case above, I could ask, “What should I do?” But I’m learning to ask a better question:

What small choice would help me the most right now?

Instead of bland electrolyte water that provides no energy, I’ve found that a homemade chocolate milk – skim milk, cocoa powder, collagen and protein powder — sustains me through my morning workout. If I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack due to too many things coming at me all at once, I take a short walk to breathe deeply and change my state. And if I feel exhausted, I take a short nap before I tackling the next thing.

Agency

I’ve also been wondering recently why certain days leave me energized while others leave me depleted. It isn’t because one day has more work than another. It’s because one day I feel like I’m choosing, while others I feel like I’ve been assigned.

The mountains have been teaching me this for years. I can’t choose the steepness of the trail, the weather, air quality, or the unexpected obstacles that appear around the next bend. But I can always choose my next step. I can choose my reactions.

Life works the same way. Autonomy doesn’t always arrive through dramatic life changes. More often, it begins with a small decision that reminds us that our life still belongs to us.

Ongoing Evolution

Today, that choice might be taking a walk instead of spiraling. The choice itself may be small, but the reminder is enormous:

The first is hardest. The second teaches. The third becomes part of who I am.

I may not get to choose every circumstance that comes my way. But I always get to choose how I show up and what my next step will be. Perhaps that’s all the autonomy anyone needs.