For those who live in the world of customer service and sales, you already know the drill: long hours, endless people-ing, and the constant feeling that you’re two steps behind no matter how fast you run.
The day starts early—6 a.m.—because the husky boys demand their first walk. An hour later, they’re happy and I’m already behind. Then comes the kid battle: my daughter tries to test the limits of what she can get away with wearing to school, while my son insists on recycling the same outfit half the week. Breakfast follows, plus prepping dinner for my husband, packing lunches for me and my daughter (we work at the same place), and maybe—if the stars align—coffee.
Then it’s the school run, the dash back home, and the inevitable look at the clock: 8:30 a.m. Already late for the morning meeting. The race to work begins. Which lane will be faster? Will I hit the construction backup? Can I “speed” a whole five miles over without feeling guilty? Oh wait—out of gas.
And that’s just the warm-up.
Work itself is a marathon of hurry-up-and-wait. Fix this, tag that, answer a ringing phone that nobody else hears, help coworkers, help customers, help everyone. Run, rush, repeat. And no—I’m not management. (I wasn’t even given the honor, which honestly turned out to be a blessing. Who wants all that responsibility for only $300 extra a month?)
By the time I finally climb back into my car, I hit play on an audiobook (currently Mark of the Fool—worth the listen!) and just pray I stay awake on the hour-long drive home. Once I’m there, I don’t get to collapse—not yet.
Because the huskies are waiting. And no one else in the house can walk them—literally. My kids are too little to wrangle two strong huskies, and my husband’s on a completely different work schedule. Which means, tired or not, it’s always me. Yes, the dogs spend their days running around our big backyard—chasing, digging, lounging in the sun or snow—but a yard isn’t the same as a real walk. Huskies need miles, not just square footage.
So every night, I lace up, grab the leashes, and march out the door. A mile per dog. Rain, shine, snowstorm—it doesn’t matter. And if I’m being honest, some nights it feels less like I’m walking them and more like they’re walking me—dragging me down the sidewalk while I just try to keep my dignity (and my balance). By the time I finally kick off my shoes, it’s 11 p.m., and I’m completely spent. But then they look at me with those big husky smiles like, “Good walk, Mom.” And somehow, that makes it worth it. Exhausting, but worth it.
Meanwhile, my husband is already snoring—we pass each other like ships in the night thanks to his 1 a.m.–10 a.m. shift. I’ll turn on a show, zone out through two episodes, and eventually pass out myself. Then the alarm hits, and we start all over again.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. And honestly, it’s a little depressing when I realize how little time is left for me. The fun stuff—movies, roller skating, camping trips, or even just having the girls over for drinks—feels like another lifetime. After peopling all day, the thought of peopling more is just…exhausting.
So, if you take anything from this, let it be this: be kind to the people who people all day. We’re tired. You’re a lot. And some days, we’re just running on caffeine, husky walks (where they walk us), and stubbornness.
Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.
The Overbooked Life 
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