Triage

Some days unravel before they even begin. And then one email arrives that changes everything.

Triage

Some days are a breeze.

You take them as they come—one thing at a time. The day moves with a familiar rhythm. You get things done. You check a few boxes. You might even find time for a cup of tea, a cookie, and a walk that feels almost optional.

Today is not one of those days.

It’s Monday.

We coordinate calendars over coffee and breakfast, the way people do when they still believe they are in charge of their time. Mine looks mostly open. His does too. There’s a ride out east on the schedule—because whatever is happening is happening there, not here—and beyond that, nothing that looks particularly urgent.

Which is, of course, how these things always begin.

He has painting to do. I have what appears to be a light day. I offer to drive so he can continue his Olympic-level commitment to the slow wake-up. It is, I have to say, an extraordinary skill—this ability to remain suspended in that warm, almost-awake state long past what seems reasonable.

The drive is easy. About an hour. HOV lane. No drama.

We arrive. No unpacking. No settling in. This is a hit-and-run kind of day. We retreat to our separate rooms—he with rollers and brushes and paint cans, me with my laptop, a small stack of files, and the faint optimism that I might get ahead of things.

And then it begins.

The radio comes on.

It’s a good playlist. I can work with it. I open my email.

Now, if you have ever opened your email on a Monday morning, you already know the feeling. It is not a single message. It is a flood. A cascade. A full-blown weather system of requests, questions, reminders, and follow-ups.

Somewhere in there are the ones you’ve been waiting for.

And like a game show contestant who suddenly realizes the stakes, I scan faster, click quicker, flag, star—there they are.

These need answers. Now.

I tell myself this is manageable. These are decisions. Quick ones. Clean ones.

I can do this.

I always do this.

I should say—I write most mornings. A few hours, at least. The rest of the day tends to follow that tone. On travel days, writing gets pushed. And that’s when the trouble starts.

Because just as I begin to sort, to triage—

I see it.

The email.

The one that doesn’t wait its turn.

It’s an invitation.

To submit.

And not just any invitation—the kind that arrives quietly but lands loudly.

We see you.

Your work matters.

Send us something.

And just like that, everything else loses its urgency.

Not forever.

But for now.

Because this is the work.

The thing underneath all the other things.

The room shifts.

The noise softens.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that whatever this day had planned for me—

it just changed.

The emails can wait.

The lists can wait.

Because I am going to write.

And if I’m lucky—

it will be some of the best work I’ve ever done!

Author’s Note

This piece sits at the edge of a day that did not go as planned. Sometimes the smallest shift in attention changes everything that follows.

Read Helaine’s Featured Author interview on Grande Dame Literary:
https://grandedameliterary.com/helaine-fiedler-writer/