Knowing Isn't the Same as Remembering

A member of our group spoke this week about the importance of breathing techniques during stressful moments. We talked through the different forms of breath work, and how each one can shift the body in a particular way. By any honest measure, this caregiver carries a toolbox full of good practices.

And yet they were having a particularly challenging week. The tools were there. The reaching for them was not.

It was a humbling moment for everyone in the room. Just because we know what to do does not mean we will remember to do it. In a hard moment, the question of whether this is a wrench-breath situation or a hammer-breath situation rarely gets asked. We just react. Afterwards, we wonder where our toolbox went.

Portia Nelson’s poem, Autobiography in Five Short Chapters, is a useful companion here. The poem follows a person walking down the same street, day after day, meeting the same hole.

In the first chapter, the person falls in without knowing the hole is there. They feel lost and helpless. It takes a long time to get out, and none of it feels like their fault.

In the second chapter, they walk down the same street and pretend not to see the hole. They fall in again. The surprise hurts almost as much as the fall, and the climb out is still slow.

In the third chapter, they see the hole clearly. They still fall in, because falling has become a habit. But this time they recognize where they are, they own the moment, and they climb out faster.

In the fourth chapter, they walk around the hole.

And in the fifth, they walk down another street altogether.

What makes the poem so steady is its honesty about how slow the change is. Awareness doesn’t fix the falling. Seeing the hole the first time doesn’t keep us out of it. There are chapters in between knowing and walking down another street, and each one takes its own time. That is not a failure of intelligence or willpower. It is how learning seems to work for most of us, especially under stress.

There are many things we know, that we forget, and that we eventually relearn. And even after we have learned something, there are days we’ll forget we ever knew it. In caregiving, where the cognitive load is already enormous, this happens more often, not less.

A few small things help.

Naming this out loud takes some of the shame off. You are not failing at self-regulation. You are exhausted, and exhausted brains reach for what is most familiar.

Putting the tools where the body can find them helps too. A note by the kettle. A short phrase on the lock screen. A friend who knows to ask, “did you take a breath today?” rather than expecting us to remember on our own.

And forgiving yourself for the rounds you missed is part of the work. You can know something fully, forget it completely, and still come back to it. That round counts too.

Building the Muscle Memory

A reaction becomes a response when it has been practiced enough times that the body knows it before the mind catches up. A response becomes muscle memory the same way: through repetition in low-stakes moments, until the path is worn in. A few hints that some caregivers find useful for closing the gap between knowing a tool and reaching for it:

• Practice when you don’t need it. Three slow breaths in the kitchen on a calm morning teach the body the path. By the time the hard moment arrives, the body has already walked it. The tool is most useful where it has been most rehearsed.
• Stack the new tool onto an existing habit. This is sometimes called habit stacking. After I sit down in the car, I take one slow exhale. Before I open the medication box, I put one hand on my chest. Pairing the new tool with a moment that already happens means the trigger is built in.
• Pre-decide your shortest first move. When a stressful moment hits, the available decision-making is small. Knowing in advance, if I am overwhelmed, my first move is one slow exhale, takes the choosing out of the moment. You are not picking the wrench or the hammer. You are doing the one thing you already chose.
• Anchor it to the body. A small bracelet you touch. A breath that always starts with one hand on the steering wheel. A doorway you take a beat in before you walk through. The body remembers physical cues more reliably than mental ones, especially under stress.
• Leave a visible reminder. A single word on the lock screen. A sticky on the bathroom mirror. A magnet on the fridge. The tool only helps if it is in the room with you when you need it.
• Debrief without judgment. After a hard moment, asking what did I reach for? what would I want to reach for next time? builds the memory without piling on shame. The round you missed is part of how the muscle gets built.

The poem reminds us that walking down another street is the last chapter, not the first. The earlier chapters count too.

Resources

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson, from her book There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery.