This year, I think I’ve developed an anxiety disorder on top of my anxiety disorder.
I already had plenty of reasons to be anxious before…
CPTSD. Estrangement. Financial instability. A family history that could double as a Netflix docuseries. Recovery. Parenting. Being the strong one. Always being the strong one.
So when I say that this year broke something loose in me, I mean it.
My partner went into the hospital. For two full months.
I became his medical proxy, his emergency contact, the translator between nurses and specialists and surgeons who never seemed to agree.
Sixty-three days of bleeps and vitals and “just one more test.”
Sixty-three days of being the one who knew the medication list by heart.
Sixty-three days of trying to keep our family together while quietly falling apart.
At the same time, my Nana was dying.
I was holding her hand. Sitting with her through the quiet hours. Letting her know she wasn’t alone.
I was trying to be fully present at the end of her life while also willing someone else to keep fighting for theirs.
There is no blueprint for that kind of emotional math.
And somewhere in all of this, I was also trying to hold a job. Or get one. Or freelance. Or keep up appearances. Or feed children. Or apply for things. Or pretend like I wasn’t about to scream into a pillow on any given Tuesday.
Now that my partner is home, and Nana is gone, and the dust should be settling, I can’t settle.
My body is out of the hospital. My brain is not.
I’m still on edge. Still refreshing. Still scrolling. Still checking feeds, job boards, notifications, inboxes, Slack. Again and again and again.
It’s like I’m waiting for something terrible to happen. Or something amazing. Or anything.
Because if I stop moving, I might feel how tired I really am.
And I don’t think I could handle that.
This isn’t just burnout. It’s not ambition. It’s not a strong work ethic.
It’s survival mode with a Wi-Fi connection.
It’s trauma wearing noise-canceling headphones, pretending to be “high-functioning.”
And yeah, I know the mantras. I’ve read the threads.
“You are not your productivity.” “Rest is resistance.” “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
Cool.
But when you’ve had to earn love, safety, and security your entire life, rest doesn’t feel like rest.
It feels like laziness. Or danger. Or failure.
Stillness makes my skin crawl. Quiet makes me feel like I’m missing something important.
Like if I don’t stay alert, everything will fall apart. Again.
And here’s what’s really wild: I know I’m not alone.
There are so many of us out here—especially those of us who’ve survived addiction, trauma, poverty, caretaking, estrangement, or just existing in bodies the world treats like a burden—who are out here running on fumes and vibes.
We check boxes. We show up. We over-function.
We are exhausted and still somehow ashamed that we’re not doing more.
I don’t have a solution. I don’t have a self-care tip, a morning routine, or a five-step healing process.
I just needed to say this out loud:
I can’t stop. And it’s not because I don’t want to.
It’s because my body doesn’t know how.