The taste in the back of your throat after a run.

The first sip of the drink you didn’t order. (The one they got wrong. Or, the one someone bought for you that you never get because it’s too pricey and you think you’re not worth it.)

The texture of that meal your Mum thinks you like, but you don’t, that you eat anyway to honour her.

Prayer, at times:

The waft of earthy metallic potential from a toolbox.

The smell of nothing in the morning, when you were sure you set the breadmaker going last night.

The first inhale through the dentist’s door.

“Mum, please can you Roblox-oof* the roses?” I was pruning heavily; my son hoped it was to do them in, rather than do them good. I’m not aiming to kill them, I explained, but if they die I actually don’t mind. (Roses aren’t my favourite but they came with the house.)

Roses are apparently the sort that, if you want them to really thrive, you cut them right back each year. They could well say, “You don’t care if I live or die! You don’t want what’s best for me at all!” Whether the gardener is a pro, or an indifferent jerk like me, it would all look the same to the roses. But the heart of the gardener would be different.

Perhaps you are pregnant. Possibly in labour. Maybe about to miscarry.
Gestation: A decade? Maybe several.
You are weary and irritable. Full of soul aches and strained heart muscles.

You thought it was just a ‘stage of life’ thing:
Take one capable, smart, hopeful young person. Give them a hefty dose of adulthood – too much to swallow in one go – and then keep it coming. Fill in your own blanks: challenging relationship; challenging singleness; parenthood; lack of parenthood; job curveballs; health curveballs; faith fractures; societal upheaval; and all the rest. Of course that’s going to hurt.