When we were eating dinner in our garden with friends Saturday night, I mentioned that I had struggled over the past two years but that I now was feeling much better and much more like my best self. They seemed surprised — apparently, I’d hid it well. And to be fair, it was not a spectacular struggle. There was no conduct befitting of a Lifetime original movie or fodder for a reality show or actions worthy of jail time. There was a contemplation aplenty, tears occasionally, heavy lifting in the thought department, making amends — all to the end of trying to figure it all out. (As a side note, I figured this much out: If someone tells you they’ve figured it all out, run — don’t walk.)

It was exhausting.

Fortunately, it was normal. Humans in their mid-40s are at their unhappiest. Seriously! When you finish this piece, google “U curve of human happiness” and read all about it. We all tend to bottom out before we settle in for the second half of our lives, and we all get rewarded with more peace, more happiness, more wisdom as we get older. In fact, “just get older” has been the advice I’ve given about 95% of the time lately. Not only is it true, it has the benefit of being easy to follow. Everything passes — including us — and there’s a lot to be said for the perspective that that realization brings.

But back to my own personal bottom of the U. Did I mention it was exhausting? I did, but it certainly bears repeating. I felt that my life was stagnant, and that I was scared, and that changes were in order. I would tell myself that this is the Year of Not Being Afraid, and I would repeat my own personal motto: When in doubt, balls out. (Sorry, Dad, I know you read this.) So I did a few big things like hike the Appalachian Trail with my son and drive hours to a concert with my daughter (where she fended off this dude who tried to send me — me! — crowd-surfing). But I mainly did a lot of little things to get reacquainted with my happiness. I returned to church and started singing in the choir. I started dancing again. I took better care of myself physically. I visited my family more often. I scheduled more lunches and dinners with friends. I began blogging. I talked to my husband more. I started walking and biking more places. I volunteered. And I bought a convertible. (Which really smacks of a mid-life crisis, but I prefer the U curve terminology.)

And with all of these little steps — I called it playing small ball — I charted my course back up the other side of the U. Except that there was a casualty. And that casualty was called my house.

For the two years or so in the bottom of the U, the amount of energy required to play small ball consumed me. I could only do so much, and apparently, only doing so much did not encompass gardening or weeding out or tending or maintaining. Lest you jump to more conclusions, let me set you straight: I had not reached the level of a special guest appearance on “Hoarders.” But everything started to look a little, or even lot, unloved.

It was exhausting.

So I decided that this was the Year of Getting Things Done. My new motto? Eat a snack and then attack. The snack is key, people. I have tried attacking without the snack, but I get resentful, cranky, tired, and (not to mention) hungry. But oh, a snack — an apple and cheese, a perfect orange, a graham cracker with peanut butter — a snack signals that I come first and that I need to take care of myself before I take care of anything else. A snack leaves me cheerful enough to weed a garden, enjoy the sunshine, and curse only mildly the invasive plants that a “friend” gave me. (Here’s a gardening tip: When someone tells you that a plant is a “little invasive,” know that it’s like being only a “little pregnant.”) Post snack, I’ve painted a front door a cheery yellow, slapped a coat of enamel on some urns, and made the entry more inviting. Roughly 412 snacks powered me to clean out the guest room and await happily the family who will visit this weekend. (The guest room — the house’s dumping grounds — had gotten so bad that it caused my daughter to make this shamefully true observation: This is where we put everything we don’t know what to do with, including you.) I have begun sewing for our bedroom, which will be getting a coat of paint soon.

And before you spend the afternoon snacking, don’t forget the attack. There have been a number of big projects — the guest room, the painting of a garage, the reimagining of a garden. But truthfully, I have become enamored of short projects. I often tell myself just to do something, because something is better than nothing. The effects of these somethings seem imperceptible at first — a cleaned light globe in the foyer here, a drawer emptied there, piled up magazines to the recycle bin another time — but they add up.  The light shines brighter, the drawer closes smoothly without a shove, the floors have no stacks. The burden lifts from the house, the fog clears from the mind, and once again, I’m in a place that I recognize. A place that feels like home.

Eat a snack and then attack. Trust me.

ALC