Waiting for Milk…
On the surface, today looked like nothing.
A person at home.
Dogs nearby.
A phone in one hand.
Time passing.
What you don’t see is the work it took just to exist inside that moment.
It was 4:30 pm when I woke up. Not because I was lazy — because pain doesn’t care what time you’re meant to start your day. My hands were already swollen and burning. I couldn’t feel my fingers without pain, and yet I still had to open my medication. My sharp nails — the ones people comment on — aren’t decorative. They’re adaptive. They’re how I open things when my hands don’t work.
Both dogs were barking. I was in the middle. One wanted to play. The noise hurt. I asked her to stop. I yelled. From the outside, that’s all anyone would see — someone snapping, someone “overreacting.” What they wouldn’t see is the sensory overload, the non-verbal shutdown, the way sound can physically hurt when your nervous system is already on fire.
I was still trying to get my second tablet out of the packet. Still trying to lift my water. Still trying to do the basic things required to stay functional.
My body hurt so badly that even moving felt like too much. All I wanted was a cup of tea. And for that, I needed milk. So I waited. And waited. And waited.
This is the part people miss.
They see frustration.
They see swearing.
They see someone “not coping.”
They don’t see the chain of effort behind it. The decisions. The adaptations. The patience it takes to sit in pain and still keep going.
This is what “waiting for milk” actually looked like.
And this is why you can’t judge someone’s day by the seconds you witness of it.
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