Rhythms and Recovery

As women, our lives are marked by different rhythms.

As a child, the school bell divided up the day. Show and tell, recess, spelling tests, lunch, maths and then home. The year was made up of four terms and ended in summer holidays that stretched on until forever.

I remember the crisp, relentless click of the metronome as I fumbled through scales on the old family upright piano. Too-long school tunic and too-short legs, kicking back and forth with boredom. Always just half a beat too slow with contrary motion.

Then there was the ebb and flow of the hospital. Clinical handovers, ward rounds, night shifts, rural rotations. February reset the cycle, with new trainees, unfamiliar pathology, challenging consultants, and another step up the postgraduate year ladder.

The previous four months had been characterised by a goal with a very clear end point: the finish line of the Sydney Marathon. Each week was punctuated by tempo sessions, creatine, recovery boots, strength and conditioning, and Strava bars. Race day was a pinnacle, but also a low point as the rhythm came to an abrupt halt.

The last three weeks have been focused on rest and recovery. There is a rhythm in this that nurtures the heart and mind, not just the aching legs. Not every stage of life is about grinding it out. I have worked hard and am now looking ahead with clarity, taking time to protect my energy for the seasons still to come.

For so many years, the 28 day cycle charted the ups and downs of adolescence, career, love, pregnancy, and motherhood. But this will not last forever, and as the rhythms change, a new phase begins.

I am finding a new rhythm in midlife. The intersection between wisdom, capability, confidence, ambition, and intention was never meant to be easy, but rhythms are not static. There may be a swing beat here, or an andante around the corner. When there are important, conflicting priorities, the rhythm might feel syncopated for a while, before settling into a steady meter when the intensity drops.

This shift is not a loss of tempo; it is the arrival of mastery. Clothed in a quiet strength, we step into a season where we are no longer playing to someone else's metronome. We are composing the score.