Every year, September sneaks up on me. On paper, it’s just a page turn on the calendar. In real life, it’s a tidal wave. I go back to school, my kids head off to theirs, and suddenly life feels like it’s running at double-speed. New routines to set, new expectations, new schedules to juggle.
And that’s when my brain turns to soup.
Not a clean fog. Not even sharp pain. Soup. Thick, heavy, slow. Words don’t come out right. I’ll know what I want to say, but my mouth won’t cooperate. Thoughts stumble. Sentences tangle. Pressure builds in my head—like my blood pressure is pulsing behind my eyes.
Right now, I can type. But I’m typing slowly, in bullet-sized sentences, trying to keep up with the outline I see in my head. Yesterday, when my friend Aron stopped by the classroom, there were almost no words at all. No thoughts that could get to the surface. Just soup. Thick and frustrating.
Yes, the PTSD is real. Every little blip is a “is this another stroke”? No, I’m just dizzy/soupy. I need a reset.
September Overload
It’s not just the work itself—it’s the start of everything at once. My classes and ensembles. My daughters adjusting to new teachers, new practices, new friends. The calendar filling faster than I can process. Add in the background hum of emails, forms, and a hundred little “don’t forgets,” and the soup starts to simmer.
I’ve learned this isn’t about weakness or poor planning. It’s about capacity. After a stroke, after overload, the circuits aren’t the same. Too much input at once and the brain simply says: enough.
Learning to Stop
The only way through is slowing down. Breathing (in 2-3-4-5-6, out 2-3-4-5-6). Letting go of the idea that I can power through if I just try harder. That’s the hardest part—because my instinct has always been to do more, faster, louder. But that only thickens the soup.
So I remind myself: retreat isn’t failure. It’s maintenance. Sometimes that looks like switching the Spotify playlist from Sly Stone to Wayne Shorter. Sometimes it’s sitting in a lawn chair with a Dr. Pepper, watching Mike Holmes fix a house on my laptop. Small resets that buy me back some clarity.
Why I Share This
It’s also a reminder: some disabilities you can’t see.
Naming it helps. Soup isn’t elegant, but it’s honest.
Deep breaths, Bwandt.