Burning Beneath

Lately, I have been wondering why I notice every small feeling in my body now.

Is it age making me more aware of what my body is doing? Or has life simply slowed down enough for me to finally sit with what was always there?

Maybe my body was always speaking.

Maybe I was just too busy to hear it.

My first panic attack changed everything.

At the time, I did not know it was a panic attack. I thought I was having a heart attack. I remember asking my husband then, now my ex, to call the ambulance. I truly believed I was dying. I remember trying to tell him everything he needed to know, everything he needed to do, how to take care of the house, the kids, the life I thought I was about to leave behind.

It was one of the scariest moments of my life.

I was rushed by ambulance to another hospital. They did an angiogram to check for blockages in my heart. Then, after they gave me medication to calm my body, everything settled. The doctors told me it was a panic attack. They still completed all the tests, and the result was clear. There was nothing wrong with my heart.

That moment terrified me, but it also woke me up.

After that, I could not keep living the way I had been living. I had been constantly busy, constantly carrying, constantly pushing through. But my body had reached its limit. More panic attacks followed after that, and some of them landed me in the ICU again. Eventually, my heart specialist began teaching me how to recognize and handle them. I was prescribed lorazepam for emergencies, even with the warning that it could become addictive. I still remember what my doctor told me. She said it is better than what happens when the attacks take over. Something in me let go after that. I stopped fighting the reality of what was happening.

Years later, after my separation, I found myself alone in a way I had never been before. Everything I had built felt like it had fallen apart. The marriage, the life, the version of myself that had been holding everything together. What remained was me, my health, and my children. And I knew I would always fight for my children.

That year alone changed me.

I reflected on every part of my life. I began seeing patterns I had never fully seen before. I understood more about who I was, what I had carried, and what had shaped me. Even after that, I chose to stay on my own for longer, because I knew there was still more in me that needed to be seen and understood.

Then came another breaking point.

When I thought I was ready to return to a busy life and heavy workload, my body responded again. Severe panic and overwhelming stress led me into deep depression and onto long term disability. This time, though, I recognized it sooner. I did not fight it the way I had before. I surrendered. I asked for help.

Thankfully, help came.

Through therapy, doctor appointments, medication changes, and long stretches of time with very little else to do, I was left with something many of us spend our lives avoiding: myself.

Just me.

My mind.

My body.

My thoughts.

And that kind of stillness changes a person.

When you are left in a room with no distractions for long enough, things begin to rise. Feelings. Memories. Patterns. Truths. Some of what I found was beautiful. Some of it was frightening. Most of it was necessary.

I began to understand my triggers.

I began to see the behaviors underneath the behaviors.

I began to trace the pain back to its roots.

I began to recognize the childhood wounds behind so much of what I felt.

So when I ask myself why I notice every small feeling now, maybe the answer is this:

Because I am finally here enough to notice.

Not because I am becoming fragile.

But because I am becoming honest.

Not because my body suddenly started speaking.

But because I finally became quiet enough to listen.

This season has stripped me down in painful ways, but it has also given me something I did not have before. It has given me a deeper knowing of myself. And this time, as I rebuild, I do not want to rebuild from the middle of a broken structure. I want to rebuild from the ground up.

Slowly.

Truthfully.

Intentionally.

This time, I want to build a life that aligns with my heart, my vision, my character, and my soul.

And that is the promise I make to myself.