There was a stretch of weeks where I could barely move off the couch. Not because I was tired—but because my body felt hijacked by something I couldn’t explain.

The world had gone flat.
Food had no taste.
Music just filled the air without touching me.

Every thought turned in on itself, pulling me deeper into the same hopeless loop: What’s the point? Will this ever end?

At first, I thought I was losing my mind.
Later, I learned I was entering perimenopause—a hormonal shift that can unravel you from the inside out.

But I also knew this wasn’t just hormones.
It felt eerily similar to other seasons I’d known too well—after heartbreak, after loss, after holding everything together for too long.

💭 Depression can come from anywhere.

A breakup that ends the future you imagined.
The death of someone who tethered you to this world.
The betrayal that steals your trust.
The exhaustion of showing up every day for everyone else while quietly disappearing yourself.

Whatever opens the door, it enters the same way—slowly, silently, and then all at once.

It drains the color from life until even joy feels unreachable.

And though it feels like the pain lives in the body—the heaviness in the chest, the ache behind the eyes—it’s not really in the body.
It’s the mind looping through pain so fast that the body starts to echo it.

That looping can be relentless.
It replays what you’ve lost, what you regret, what you can’t change.

And when the body begins to mirror those thoughts—heart pounding, breath shallow, skin flushing—it convinces you that the only way to stop the pain is to escape the body altogether.

That’s where numbing begins.

Some reach for a drink, a pill, a distraction—anything that quiets the noise.

For a moment, it works.
But the brain is clever. It rewires itself quickly.

Those natural pleasure pathways—the ones built for connection, movement, and presence—begin to dim.

Soon, the relief has to be chased instead of received.

Learning this changed how I see addiction.
It’s not weakness. It’s not moral failure.
It’s survival.
A desperate attempt to stop feeling pain when nothing else works.

✨ The deceptive piece is this:

Even though the pain feels like it lives in the body,
and escape seems like the answer,
the real truth is—
the way out of pain isn’t escape. It’s re-entry.

You have to come back into the body to heal.

Anxiety drags you into the future—the fear of what could go wrong. Depression traps you in the past—the grief of what’s already gone. (MIND)

The body is the only place that exists in the present.

We associate the pain with the body, but the body is also where peace begins.

🌿 The Way Back Through the Body

Presence is the way home.
And presence begins with your senses—the parts of you that exist only in the now.

You can start small.

If leaving the house feels impossible, start by noticing what’s around you:
the light shifting across the floor,
the sound of your breath,
the warmth of a blanket on your skin.

If you can go outside, take a sensory walk.
Pick one sense and let it lead you back into the moment:

👁 Sight: choose a color—blue, green, yellow—and look for it everywhere.
👂 Sound: listen for birds, leaves rustling, your own footsteps.
✋ Touch: feel the bark of a tree, the earth under your hands, the weight of air on your skin.
👃 Smell: breathe in pine, soil, rain.
👅 Taste: let yourself really taste your food; don’t rush nourishment.

These small acts pull you out of the mental loop and back into the living world.

They don’t erase pain—but they create space between you and it.

Sometimes, when I’m mountain biking, it happens automatically.
I can’t think about my problems when I’m riding a trail.
If my attention drifts, I fall.

That level of focus—the demand to be fully here—becomes medicine. Adrenaline and endorphins rush in, and suddenly I feel alive again.

But not every day allows for that kind of movement.
Some days, it’s about breathing through five minutes of stillness, noticing light, counting breaths, or finding one small sensory moment that anchors you to now.

Presence doesn’t remove pain—it transforms your relationship to it.

You begin to realize that the pain isn’t who you are.
It’s what you’re moving through.

And slowly, gently, light begins to return.

I’m sharing this because I know what it feels like to lose yourself—to lose joy, connection, and even the will to keep going.

But I also know this:
the body holds the map back to light.

When you start to feel again—not just emotionally, but through your senses—you begin to reconnect to life.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re in that quiet war right now.
Maybe the smallest things—brushing your teeth, making breakfast, answering a message—feel monumental.

If so, take heart.
Even one moment of presence is a beginning.

Not in escaping the body,
but in returning to it.

Come back to your breath.
Come back to your body.
Come back to the light waiting to meet you there. 💫