#MondayBlogs 👟 What Eight Weeks on My Sofa Has Taught Me About Life... and Writing | @BadRedheadMedia (free to read and subscribe) geni.us/EightWeeksOnSofa "Ten things I’ve learned about slowing down, asking for help, and letting my body run the show." Eight weeks ago, I missed a step in my home, went down hard, and fractured my right fibula, just above the ankle. My world became very small, very fast. Suddenly, I had a hairline fracture, an ‘air cast’ (aka, a boot), a knee scooter, strict orders not to put weight on my leg, pain, ice, pain meds, and an impressive number of pillows devoted entirely to elevation. I went from driving, working, running errands, and going wherever to spending every day on the sofa with my leg up. I’m still not fully weight-bearing, and my next X-ray is a week away as I write this. Though my fibula, apparently, is in no hurry whatsoever, I’m grateful it’s a clean hairline break that doesn’t require surgery. Could've been worse. Still, losing one’s independence overnight is frustrating and downright humbling. I don’t love asking someone to bring me coffee, help me change my sexy compression sock, or carry things from one room to another. I especially don’t love that every basic task now requires the intense concentration of Pip watching me open a can that may or may not contain tuna. Still, I started noticing what these eight weeks have taught me about life, gratitude, and, of course, writing. 1. Humans Can Adapt to Almost Anything (If We Know It’s Temporary) The word temporary saved my sanity. I can deal with the living downstairs, the boot, the scooter, the sofa, washing my hair in the sink, using my son’s bathroom😬, and asking for help because I know this isn’t forever. There will be another X-ray, followed by another stage of healing, a brace, and physical therapy. Eventually, I’ll walk normally again. I’ll drive. I’ll be back to doing the everyday boring stuff I miss. Writing misery can feel permanent, too. Rejection, a terrible review, low book sales, zero engagement, or a draft that refuses to behave can convince us this is how writing will be forever. It usually isn’t. It’s what’s happening now. Now passes. This too shall pass. 2. Asking for Help Isn’t the Same as Being Helpless I hate asking for help. I’d rather do something myself (my mom started calling me Iron Butterfly at age two), even if that means balancing on one leg while holding a water bottle, my cat, and making questionable takeout choices. This fracture put a stop to that nonsense. I’m not helpless; I’m injured and convalescing. There’s a difference, even if my stubborn brain occasionally needs a reminder. It does. Writers can be just as stubborn. Shocking, I know. We expect ourselves to write, edit, publish, market, design graphics, understand metadata, run ads, deal with AI slop everywhere, recognize ALL THE scams, and keep up with whatever Amazon or Substack changed five minutes ago, even when we don’t know what half that stuff is. Becoming a writer doesn’t automatically translate to being a marketing expert. You’re allowed to ask for help. It’s not as difficult as you may think. Trust me. Read more: geni.us/EightWeeksOnSofa Always free to read and subscribe!