I wish I could say things improved after last week’s wobble — that the air cleared, the house settled, the fear loosened its grip. But it didn’t. If anything, the panic deepened, the walls pressed closer, and the floorboards felt thinner beneath my feet.
All week my body has felt wrong.
Shaking hands.
Sick stomach.
Racing heart.
That horrible, dizzy sense that something is about to go terribly wrong even though nothing is actually happening.
By Monday morning, the anxiety had built so high I had no choice but to go to the doctor. I needed someone — anyone — to help me make sense of why my body was staging a full revolt. It’s like the stress didn’t just echo this time; it rooted itself in me, tightening everything until I couldn’t breathe properly.
I’ve been a mess.
No poetic way to put it.
Just a mess.
I made it back to work on Thursday — probably too soon — but I needed the routine, needed something to anchor me so my brain didn’t spiral into “What if something is wrong at work?” territory again. Being at home alone with my thoughts was feeding the beast. Going in felt like reclaiming a bit of myself, even if it was shaky and held together with willpower and caffeine.
This week hasn’t been triumphant or transformative.
It’s been survival.
And through all of it — the panic, the crying, the nausea, the dread I can’t explain — Joel has been my light. My steady, patient sun in a sky that felt storm-thick and colourless. He’s held space for every wobble, every fear, every midnight shake. He’s been gentle when I’ve been scared, calm when I’ve been frantic, solid when I’ve felt like air.
I can’t express how much that has meant.
How much he means.
I don’t think I could love him more if I tried.
Sometimes the thing that saves you isn’t a grand gesture or a breakthrough — it’s someone staying soft when your whole world feels sharp.
And this week, that softness kept me standing.