It didn’t start with some dramatic crash or breakthrough or whatever. Honestly? It started with the fridge. One night I opened it and the sound, the buzzing, and the lights, it was all just too much. Not dangerous or anything. Just loud. Wrong. I shut the door and sat on the floor. Didn’t move. Just kinda breathed.
That’s when I knew something was off. And yeah, I needed to slow down.
Not in the cute, go-do-yoga sense. I mean real slow. Like bones-melting-into-the-chair slow.
I made this little corner in the house. Just for sitting. Nothing fancy. Old chair. Blanket. A diffuser that spit out lavender. No phone. No book. Nothing but presence.
Sometimes I’d make tea and not even drink it. Just hold the mug. Felt like an anchor. Warmth makes a difference when you’re spiraling.
I stopped using alarms. Sure, I was late sometimes. But I woke up human. My mornings finally belonged to me.
That slow? That quiet? It told my body, hey, we’re not in trouble anymore.
