Gravethorn has been restless this week.
The halls have felt heavier, the lamps dimmer, like the house itself has been watching me drag my bones through each day, burnt out and frayed at the edges. I’ve been moving through work like a ghost — zoning out, disconnected, exhausted from weeks of stress and broken sleep.
A simple conversation with Louise cracked something open. Nothing dramatic was said, yet it pulled at an old thread of fear. Suddenly I was right back in the corridors of past jobs, bracing for punishment, convinced I’d failed without realising. Anxiety has a way of dragging old ghosts into modern rooms.
By the time my appraisal arrived, I was deep in fight-or-flight: shaking hands, racing heart, stomach twisted tight. It felt like stepping into the Hall of Mirrors expecting every worst version of myself to appear.
Instead, the mirrors softened.
Glowing feedback.
A bonus.
A 3% rise.
And eleven new entities — a sign of trust, not concern.
It was a strange kind of emotional whiplash. Like discovering the monster I’d been running from was just my own shadow, stretched out and distorted by memory. The past still tries to convince me I’m unsafe, even when the present is steady beneath my feet.
Then came the job offer — Gill approaching me about a senior role in her new company. On paper, impressive. In reality, too heavy for the headspace I’m in right now. I knew the level would crush me. So I told her the truth. She came back with a more junior spec, kinder, more suited… but even that feels like something future-me might hold, not the fragile version navigating burnout and healing.
I’m allowed to not be ready.
I’m allowed to protect my peace.
And in the middle of all this, I’ve been doing what I always do when my brain feels cluttered: purging the house. A mega purge — cupboards emptied, drawers sorted, hidden corners reclaimed. It felt like opening all the windows in Gravethorn, letting old energy escape, clearing space for something softer.
Seeing my gran, too, always stirs something deep. Her decline comes in gentle steps, but each one presses on the bruise that November always seems to find. This time of year drags up memories of my dad, grief curling through the edges of the season like smoke under a door. There’s a sadness that settles in my chest that I can’t always name, only feel.
But in all of that heaviness, there is Joel.
My grounding force.
My warmth.
My steady sun.
He doesn’t even have to say much — just being near him quiets the Noise, brings me back into my body, reminds me that I’m here, that I’m safe, that I’m loved in ways I still struggle to believe I deserve.
So tonight, in our little house, with Billie guarding her blanket throne, I’ve made a simple stew. Something warm, something real. We’ll curl up, bowls in hand, blankets piled around us, some spooky TV humming in the background.
A small ritual of comfort after a week of storms.
And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this:
The danger isn’t here anymore.
The ghosts are memories, not warnings.
I am valued.
I am growing at my own pace.
And I am doing better than the shadows would have me believe.