No One Talks About the Emotional Labor of Trying to Be Chill

I nodded. I smiled. I said "no worries" twelve times. I am now in urgent care with a jaw tension injury.

The doctor is looking at my face like I've presented her with a fascinating medical mystery instead of the predictable result of spending three consecutive days pretending everything is fine when absolutely nothing is fine.

"So you're saying this happened from... smiling too much?" she asks, squinting at what I can only assume is a completely jacked-up jaw situation.

"Well," I say, trying not to move my face too much because holy shit it hurts, "technically it happened from being super chill about things that were definitely not chill."

She blinks. I elaborate.

It started Monday morning when my coworker decided to "restructure the sales reports" which is corporate speak for "completely fuck up months of work and then act like it's an exciting opportunity for growth." She announced this via email at 8:32 am with too many exclamation points and the phrase "can't wait to collaborate on this fresh approach!"

My initial response was a primal scream that I swallowed so hard I think it lodged permanently in my esophagus. My actual response was: "Sounds great! No worries at all! Happy to jump in!"

Strike one against my facial muscles.

Tuesday brought the revelation that my landlord is "exploring options" for the building, which is fancy talk for "I'm selling this place and you're probably going to be homeless but let's pretend this is a fun adventure we're all taking together." The email was written in that cheerful tone that people use when they're about to ruin your life but want you to thank them for it.

I spent twenty-five minutes crafting a response that basically said "no problem, I love uncertainty and financial anxiety" but in professional, grateful language. The final draft included phrases like "totally understand" and "appreciate the heads up" and "please keep me posted on next steps!" Each exclamation point felt like I was hammering a nail into my own emotional coffin.

My jaw started clicking that afternoon. I told myself it was probably nothing.

Wednesday was when my sister called to inform me she's getting married in six weeks and I'm the maid of honor and also could I handle "just a few small details" which turned out to be literally the entire wedding except for showing up and saying yes. She rattled off a list that included finding a venue, hiring a caterer, booking a photographer, ordering flowers, and "maybe coordinating with the other bridesmaids about dresses and stuff."

"I know it's super last minute," she said, in that voice people use when they're asking you to donate a kidney but want it to sound casual, "but you're so good at this kind of thing!"

I am not good at this kind of thing. I once forgot my own birthday for three days. But instead of explaining that I have the organizational skills of a concussed hamster, I heard myself saying, "Of course! No worries! I'm so excited to help make your day perfect!"

That's when the grinding started. Actual, audible grinding. My teeth were staging a revolt against my relentless commitment to being accommodating.

By Thursday morning, I looked like I'd been punched by someone wearing brass knuckles made of pure stress. My jaw had locked into what can only be described as a rictus of fake positivity. I could barely open my mouth wide enough to drink coffee, which was problematic because coffee was the only thing preventing me from committing acts of violence against people who used phrases like "circle back" and "touch base."

But did I cancel anything? Did I set boundaries? Did I explain to anyone that I was operating at maximum capacity and couldn't take on additional responsibilities without suffering physical consequences?

Of course not. I smiled wider and said "absolutely!" to three more requests that arrived via email, text, and a Post-it note someone stuck to my computer screen.

The final straw was when my neighbor knocked on my door to ask if I could water her plants while she was in rehab for her shoulder for two weeks. Not just a few houseplants. It’s more like twenty houseplants. Which includes specific care instructions and flowers that are "very delicate" and a feeding system that requires daily attention.

"I know you're probably super busy," she said, while I stood there looking like a chipmunk who'd been storing nuts in her cheeks for the apocalypse, "but you're always so helpful and easygoing!"

I tried to say "I'd love to help but I'm dealing with some health issues right now" but what came out was a strangled "mmm-hmm" noise because my jaw had finally said "fuck this" and seized up completely.

She took this as enthusiastic agreement.

So here I am in urgent care, explaining to a medical professional that I've essentially injured myself through excessive agreeability. The doctor prescribes muscle relaxers and suggests I "try to reduce stress" which is like telling someone who's drowning to "try to be less wet."

The cherry on top is that while I'm sitting here with an ice pack strapped to my face, my phone keeps buzzing with new requests. Someone wants me to help them move. Someone else needs me to cover their shift. My sister has ten new "small tasks" for the wedding.

And you know what my instinct is? To respond immediately with "sure thing!" and "happy to help!" Because apparently I'd rather dislocate my entire face than disappoint someone who couldn't be bothered to plan ahead or find an alternative solution.

The muscle relaxers are helping, but they're also making me realize how completely bananas this whole situation is. I've literally hospitalized myself trying to be the person everyone can count on, the one who never says no, the human embodiment of "it's totally fine."

But here's the thing nobody tells you about being super chill: it's fucking exhausting. Pretending you don't have limits is basically emotional CrossFit, except instead of getting ripped abs you get facial spasms and a prescription for drugs that make you feel like you're viewing the world through Jell-O.

I'm starting to think "no worries" might actually be two of the most dangerous words in the English language. Right up there with "trust me" and "we need to talk" and "some assembly required."

The doctor says I need to rest my jaw muscles, which means no talking for seventy-two hours. Honestly, this might be the universe's way of forcing me to stop agreeing to things before my brain has a chance to process what's being asked.

Maybe by the time I can speak again, I'll have figured out how to say "that doesn't work for me" without my entire face trying to permanently relocate to the back of my skull.

Or maybe I'll just invest in a really good mouth guard and keep living this life of voluntary servitude until my jaw completely detaches and starts its own independent existence somewhere in Florida.

Either way, at least now I have a legitimate medical excuse for not being able to enthusiastically agree to water anyone's prize-winning petunias.

Progress, right?