I’ve been a little off for a few months. I’ve felt it, but I haven’t had the words. Last night, I finally sat with the heaviness long enough to let it come out. And today, I can articulate it a little better.

A big part of me feels broken. And it’s no longer just mental. It’s physical. My chest, my stomach, even my heart feel fractured. I’ve reached a place where waking up each day feels like being a fish out of water, gasping for air. Everything takes more effort than it should, and I find myself bracing before the day even begins.

What surprised me most is how much my body has been carrying before my mind caught up. The tight chest. The shallow breaths. The constant low-grade tension that never really lets up. I used to think I could outthink hard seasons. Push through them. Stay productive until the feeling passed. This one isn’t working like that. My body stopped cooperating. It started asking for honesty instead of endurance. Through this I’m learning that sometimes anxiety isn’t weakness. Sometimes it’s information.

Work Was Never the Problem

I’ve always loved work. I grew up dreaming of a big career. I joke that I chose office supplies over Barbies, but it’s true. As a kid, I walked around the house with a briefcase. Ambition was and still is never my problem.

I’ve been through hard seasons before, and maybe that’s why this one hurts so much. It feels all too familiar. It reminds me of my early agency days, when I felt trapped. Sunday scaries were constant. That sinking pit in my stomach followed me everywhere until I finally worked up the courage to leave. I don’t ever want to handle things that way again. At the time, I literally printed a resignation letter, left it on my desk, and walked out without telling anyone. But back then, the only way forward was to bet on myself and let go of what was familiar so I could move into the next phase of my life. To this day, I still regret how I handled that and burning that bridge, BUT it was also necessary. 

I’ve always trusted myself to figure things out. I’ve always believed that growth comes from leaning into discomfort. I’m actually really good at being uncomfortable and finding meaning in growth. I even enjoy looking back on those moments and seeing how far I’ve come.

What’s different now is the realization that doing “better” on paper doesn’t automatically make things better in your body or your life. For a long time, I hated the saying that money can’t buy happiness. It felt dismissive. And while I still don’t fully agree with it, I understand it differently now. Money can buy security. It can create options. It can remove certain kinds of stress. But I’m learning, in real time, that security and happiness are not the same thing. And even more confronting, that being paid more doesn’t automatically translate into feeling healthier, more grounded, or more like yourself.

This time feels different. Not louder. Not more dramatic. But much heavier.

Missing a Chapter I Loved

My last chapter was, by far, my favorite. I can smile as I write that.

Sometimes I ache to go back to where I was. Not because it was easy, but because it felt aligned. I felt grounded. I felt like myself in a way that didn’t require constant effort or self-negotiation. At the same time, I know I outgrew that role and what that chapter could offer me. I wasn’t meant to stay there forever. I know I’m ready for something more. A bigger life. Holding both of those truths at once has been oddly comforting. You can miss something deeply and still know it’s not where you’re meant to stay.

What’s been most unsettling is realizing how much of my identity is tied to being capable, confident, and certain. I’ve always trusted myself to know who I am and where I’m going. Or at least I thought I did. Sitting in uncertainty has stripped away some of that certainty, and it’s forced me to question the version of myself I’ve relied on for a long time.

I’m starting to see that growth doesn’t always look like expansion, promotion, or momentum. Sometimes it looks like shedding old definitions of success. Sometimes it looks like letting go of who you were supposed to be so you can make room for who you actually are.

What’s been hardest to explain is the disappointment and the grief underneath it all. Grief for the role I loved. Grief for the industry that felt like home. Grief for the version of myself who felt confident, grounded, and certain of her place.

Letting go of all of that at once feels heavier than I expected. There’s a quiet mourning that comes with realizing that something you planned for, worked toward, and believed in doesn’t fit the way you thought it would.

On top of it, I’m disappointed that this season didn’t turn out the way I imagined. And it’s embarrassing to admit that out loud, because I really thought I knew what I was stepping into.

The big role. Working in the city. Even the dream wardrobe I pictured for myself.

For a moment, it felt like I had it all. Like I made it. I was proud of myself. I thanked God. And then that feeling faded faster than I expected. Now, I feel trapped, like I’ve somehow lost the driver’s seat of my own life. Most days feel like putting one foot in front of the other. I put on a brave face during the day, then come home and quietly fall apart, collapsing onto the couch. 

Nights are when it all catches up to me. I used to come home from work and work out. I used to cook dinner and look forward to sitting down with Mike at the end of the day. Now workouts don’t happen at all, and if I make dinner it’s one night a week, maybe two. That loss hurts more than I want to admit, because those things matter to me. They’re how I take care of myself. They’re how I stay connected. What hurts most is knowing that my husband often gets what’s left of me during the week, and there isn’t much. I hate that. Not because he’s asked for more, but because I want to be more present than this.

When Showing Up Takes Everything You Have

This is the part that’s been hardest to admit. It’s been difficult to show up here because, behind the scenes, I’ve been desperately trying to get back to myself. Most days, just getting through the day takes everything. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, grinding one. I used to think I could muscle through hard seasons. Push a little harder. Stay disciplined. Keep moving until things settled. But this season hasn’t responded to effort the way others have. The more I push, the more depleted I feel. The harder I try, the worse it gets.

The clearest sign of that is how far I’ve drifted from the things that once grounded me. I’ve worked out maybe twice since Halloween. For me, that’s wild. For years, movement has been non-negotiable. At a minimum, I worked out three times a week. I canceled Pilates. I bought a walking pad that’s now sitting untouched in the corner, collecting dust.  I even stopped creating content and abandoned The Mid. 

These weren’t just habits and hobbies. They were how I took care of myself. How I processed stress. How I stayed connected to my body, my energy, and my sense of balance. How I stayed inspired. Losing them hasn’t just changed my routine. It’s changed how I feel in myself. I can feel it in my body before I can fully explain it in words. The tension that never quite lets go. The exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch. The sense that all of my energy is going toward managing the weight of the day instead of actually living inside it.

What scares me most isn’t the difficulty of the work itself. I’ve done hard things before. I know how to operate at a high level. What scares me is how much it’s costing me to keep going like this — how much of myself I’ve had to put down just to get through.

And that’s the questions I keep coming back to: at what point does pushing through become self-betrayal? At what point does endurance stop being strength? What is it that I really want to do? 

I  want to say I don’t have all the answers right now. 

But I also know that’s not true. I know exactly what I want. I’m just not ready to admit it out loud. What I want comes with real risk. The kind that threatens the stability I’ve built. The kind that could cost me everything I’ve worked for if I get it wrong. And that terrifies me.

At the same time, my body knows. My stomach knows. My heart knows. And they want it badly. There’s a bigger life out there — I can feel it — and I’ve spent the last two years blowing up what was familiar trying to find my way to it.

I think I’m close. Close enough that pretending otherwise feels dishonest. That’s the part I’m stuck in. Not ignorance. Not confusion. Fear. Fear of losing stability. Fear of being wrong. Fear of choosing wrong and having to live with the consequences.

But staying still has consequences too. I can stay and keep slowly disappearing, or I can take the risk and step toward the life I keep circling. I can’t keep edging the decision forever.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready to say it out loud. I just know I can’t keep pretending I don’t know. Because I honestly want to scream it from the roof tops.  

Why I’m Sharing This

I shared a version of this on Instagram because it started pouring out of me and I needed to say it somewhere. But it didn’t fit there. It needed more room than a caption could hold. This is the fuller truth. The parts that don’t compress well. The parts that are still unfolding. The parts where I rambled, just to get this all out.

It’s been hard to show up anywhere while I’m in the middle of trying to get back to myself. Writing this isn’t about having clarity or answers. It’s about being honest about where I actually am. 

I’m sharing this because I know I can’t be the only one carrying questions like these quietly. Wondering when pushing through turns into self-betrayal. Wondering how much longer you can live a life that looks stable on the outside but feels wrong in your body.

If any of this resonates, I hope I helped you in some way. Sometimes we don’t need solutions. Sometimes we just need somewhere safe to tell the truth. Thank you for giving me that space.