Last weekend, Massachusetts was frozen over—snow and ice blanketed the cars, the roads, everything. Inside, I was frozen in my own way, put on heavy-dose steroids to counter severe damage to my eyes, thyroid, and pituitary gland. All side effects from immunotherapy. The pain before the meds had been unbearable, a constant throb behind my eyes that left me lying flat, stuck in my own head. The treatment brought relief—but it brought its own weight too.

By Sunday, my anxiety had set in hard. Sleep was impossible, my thoughts were on a loop, and I couldn’t find a way out. I reached out to the people I trust most, but even as I spoke, I could hear myself spiraling: “I can’t see the good part.” “What if I caused this?” “How am I so unprepared?” It didn’t help. The more I unraveled, the harder I was on myself. Even their reminders to be gentle felt like too much—like they were giving me permission I hadn’t earned.

And intellectually, I knew better. Shame and blame don’t solve anything. They just burn up what little energy I have left. But knowing that doesn’t make the ride any shorter. It doesn’t make it less exhausting. And no matter how many times I’ve been here before, it always feels like the first time when I’m in it.

Eventually, the threads started to hold. A new prescription finally brought sleep—deep, uninterrupted, dreamless. The kind of sleep that softens everything, even if just a little. By the next morning, I found myself wanting things again: juice, fresh fruit, vegetables. I got Zara’s leash and took her out before the sun came up. The craving to write hit soon after. None of it happened all at once, but each thing built on the other, like bricks stacked carefully over a shaky foundation.

Here’s what I know: I can’t undo what’s happened. I can’t get back to a “before” that doesn’t exist anymore. But I can start again—here, in this body, in this moment. And that has to be enough–because it’s all I have and I want it all.

#noquit