I don’t like surprises.
There. I’ve said it.
I know some people absolutely love them. They like not knowing where they’re going, what they’ve been bought, what somebody has planned. They enjoy the anticipation and the mystery of it all.
I do not.
I like to know.
I like a plan. I like to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, who will be there and, preferably, what the parking situation is. I want to be able to mentally walk myself through something before I get there.
It isn’t that I don’t like doing new things. I actually do. I’m curious by nature and I love discovering somewhere new or trying something I’ve never done before.
But there’s a difference between choosing to step outside your comfort zone and somebody else gently pushing you out of it.
And I think menopause has made that difference much bigger for me.
Things that I might once have shrugged off can now feel enormous. The uncertainty gets under my skin. My brain starts filling in all the gaps with the worst possible versions of events.
Last weekend was a particularly good example.
It was my birthday and Bruce had organised something for me.
I knew absolutely nothing about it.
Which, in theory, is lovely.
In practice, I was a woman sitting in the passenger seat having what can only be described as a fairly significant internal wobble.
I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know what I was going to have to do. I didn’t know who would be there. I didn’t know whether I would be good at it. I didn’t know whether I would make a complete fool of myself.
And somewhere between home and wherever we were going, my anxiety decided that this was all far too much.
I very nearly had a meltdown.
Not because anything was actually wrong. Nothing was wrong.
I was perfectly safe. Bruce had organised something because he wanted me to have a lovely birthday.
But my brain didn’t seem particularly interested in the facts.
It was reacting to the uncertainty.
Eventually we arrived and I discovered that we were going to a pottery-making class.
Pottery.
Of all the things I could have imagined, I don’t think that would have been anywhere near the top of the list.
And then something rather lovely happened.
There were only six of us.
It wasn’t a big, noisy class full of people who all knew what they were doing. It was small and relaxed. We had a cup of tea, we were shown what to do and, gradually, the thing I had been dreading became just… something I was doing.
We made three pots.
Three.
And, rather surprisingly, I was quite good at it.
Who knew?
There is something very grounding about sitting with a lump of clay in front of you and having to concentrate on what your hands are doing. You can’t really think about what might happen next when you’re trying to stop your pot from collapsing.
And perhaps that was the lesson I needed.
I had spent all that time worrying about an experience that hadn’t happened yet.
I’d created a whole story around it.
I had imagined embarrassment, discomfort, awkwardness and not knowing what to do. I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t enjoy it before I’d even got through the door.
And yet, once I was there, I was fine.
Actually, I was more than fine.
I enjoyed it.
I’m not suddenly going to announce that I’m giving up photography and becoming a professional potter. Although, frankly, I may have discovered a previously untapped talent.
But I have been thinking about that journey there ever since.
Because I suspect this is what happens when our comfort zones get smaller.
We don’t necessarily stop wanting to do things. We just become more aware of all the things that could make us uncomfortable.
And menopause seems to have turned the volume up on that for me.
There are days when my tolerance for uncertainty is practically non-existent. Something that would once have been a mild inconvenience can feel like an enormous hurdle. My emotional response arrives before my rational brain has had time to catch up.
I don’t think that’s something to be ashamed of.
And I don’t think the answer is necessarily to force ourselves constantly out of our comfort zones either.
Sometimes your comfort zone is where you need to be.
Sometimes you need a quiet day. Sometimes you need to say no. Sometimes you need to know the plan, because knowing the plan makes the world feel a little easier to navigate.
But perhaps there is also something to be said for occasionally letting somebody else hold the plan for you.
Even when it feels horribly uncomfortable at first.
Because the thing I keep coming back to is that I nearly had a meltdown before I got there.
Not during.
Before.
The thing itself was lovely.
And I wonder how often we do that to ourselves. We experience the discomfort of something that hasn’t happened yet, and in doing so we miss the possibility that it might actually be rather wonderful.
I’m not going to pretend I’ve suddenly become someone who loves surprises.
Let’s not get carried away.
But perhaps I can remember the pottery when the next unknown thing comes along.
I can remember sitting at that little table with five other people, drinking tea, getting my hands covered in clay and making three pots.
I can remember that I was anxious.
And I can remember that I went anyway.
Sometimes being brave doesn’t look like confidently marching into something new.
Sometimes it looks like nearly having a meltdown in the car, taking a breath, walking through the door anyway…
…and discovering you’re actually quite good at making pots.