I fainted on Beth’s shoulder outside the Ivy Tech Community College Conference Center this morning.

This is where Indy Reads was being held, an event supporting adult literacy, English language proficiency, and job readiness skills for residents of Indianapolis. I had never been to this event before, nor had I been to this location, so despite Sarah kindly telling me that I did not need to be there exactly on time, on time I was. Already caffeinated, naturally.

As I walked in, I tripped over the sidewalk and audibly said “oof,” but quickly recovered, examining my hands and making self-deprecating comments to a woman named Mackenzie who looked genuinely concerned.

“Are you very sure you are okay?” she asked.

“Yes, absolutely,” I replied. “So, what neighborhood do you live in?”

This question made no sense in context, which should have been my first clue that I was, in fact, not okay.

As I wrote my name in black Sharpie on a nametag, my legs began to feel weak, my vision blurred, and I felt suddenly, unmistakably woozy. I found a bathroom and sat down beneath a free maxi pad and tampon dispenser. Nice touch. 

Oh no.

Not because I was worried for my life, exactly, but because I wanted to be here on time. I wanted to meet all the people Sarah had so graciously offered to introduce me to. That was so kind of her, and we had only just met. Vikram did not pick up. I hate this about myself, but one of my next thoughts was: I could have met a new client here. Scratch that, maybe two.

I made my way back outside.

“Are you okay?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I fell. Could I have some Band-Aids?”

The woman, who I later learned was Beth, returned with bright blue Band-Aids and one solitary bandage that read oops ouch oops ouch oops ouch over and over again. She bandaged my hand and my knee, told me to breathe deeply, and then said, in the calmest voice imaginable: “I am an emergency room nurse and I am here to help you.”

She actually said this.

A few moments later, or maybe minutes, I do not know, I found my head resting on her shoulder.

“You’re okay,” she said. “It will pass.”

And, by golly, it did.

By 7:23 a.m. I was already feeling better. For context, the event began at 7:00, I arrived at 7:04, likely fell at 7:06, so I was making excellent time. Beth retrieved some orange juice for me as well as a Kind ‘Protein’ Bar—protein in quotes because it only contained 8 grams. This led me to ask her about The David Bar, and she exclaimed, “I had chocolate chip cookie dough this morning!” As it happened, I had Cake Batter in my bag. Oh, life! I thought. 

When I finally made it inside, I saw Sarah and apologized profusely for being late. I explained what had happened, and she said, “Sometimes God gives us a signal that we need to slow down.”

What a profound reframe.

Whether or not one believes in God, or signals, or the universe, I think she’s right.

I could benefit from slowing down. From pausing. From taking stock. From taking one single beat before sending the email, before rushing into the room, before assuming that every opportunity must be maximized, every interaction leveraged, every morning conquered before 7:30 a.m.

As a coach, I help people pause all the time. But this morning made me wonder whether I actually let myself have one.

Because a pause is not always graceful. Sometimes it looks like stillness and insight and a beautifully timed breath. And sometimes it looks like tripping on a sidewalk, confusing a stranger, and briefly passing out on the shoulder of an angelic ER nurse outside a conference center in Indianapolis.

Still, a pause is a pause.

You know where I am going with this, don’t you, dear reader.

If you don’t, it is this: you do not always choose the moment that stops you. A lot of times, life will choose it for you.

So maybe the real question is not whether I know how to tell other people to slow down.

Maybe it is whether I know how to listen when it is my turn.