Still Here, Still Healing: A Dispatch from the Pause

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from doing the hard things with no backup plan.
From carrying everything on your own back while trying to build something that might carry you instead.

And if you’ve been following along, you probably noticed—I haven’t blogged since July 3rd.

Not because I didn’t care.
Not because I ran out of things to say.

But because it’s been one hell of a few weeks.

It all came to a head when the pain finally demanded center stage—unignorable, consuming, constant. I had to dial everything back, even the things that mattered, just to stay afloat. And at the same time, I had to face the brutal truth: I still have to keep going, pain or not.

Do you know how hard that is for someone already fighting depression and anxiety on a daily basis?
It’s like trying to climb out of a pit with sandbags tied to your arms—only now the pit is also on fire.

And then the roof started leaking.
Literally.
The final offense in a long, moldy, crumbling list of reasons why my current rental situation has me cornered like a caged thing. I stood in my living room, watching water drip from the ceiling, thinking: Of course it did.

Because the universe wasn’t done.

And layered over it all is the constant, gut-deep rage of living in a country that’s actively dismantling the very systems people like me need to survive. Not to thrive. Not to coast. Just to make it to the next stretch of solid ground, where maybe, finally, we’re stable enough to contribute, to create, to breathe without bracing for impact.

So yeah—I was the conductor, engineer, and unwilling passenger on the Hot Mess Express. No brakes, no tracks, just vibes.

And then… I stopped.

I did a full, guilt-ridden, soul-splintering stop.
I withdrew into the only safe space I had left—me. I pulled the shutters closed, took a thousand deep breaths, and tried to sort through the mental and physical wreckage.

I’m still not done.

But I’m getting… better.

I’ve built a supplement stack that’s honestly been lifesaving. Not in a cure-all way, but in the way that lets me feel like myself for longer stretches at a time. It’s helping me manage my pain, stabilize my brain, and regain enough function to move forward.

But no—the pain isn’t going away.

Today, I had an initial consult with my doctor. He listened, examined, nodded grimly, and referred me to a surgeon. Because apparently, years of doing what I love—crocheting, typing, writing, creating—have done damage I might not fully recover from.

Best guess? A charming cocktail of carpal tunnel and cubital tunnel, attacking both my wrist and elbow, compromising the nerves that make my dominant hand work. Surgery’s likely. Full recovery? Not guaranteed.

Which means there’s a real chance I might never get full use of my right hand again.

And I wish I could say I took that news with stoic grace or enlightened detachment.

But no. I just sat there thinking: Of course it’s this. Of course it’s now.

Here’s what I know now:

I’m still here.

That doesn’t sound like much—but it is.
I’ve managed to claw my way through this mess without collapsing entirely. I’ve kept going—imperfectly, inconsistently, emotionally—but I’ve kept going.

• I got my Medicaid reinstated, after navigating a system built like a trap.
• I’m repairing my credit—not perfectly, but persistently.
• I finally got new glasses, because I deserve to see the world clearly.
• I launched my Ko-fi page and started sharing what I’ve built.
• I began laying the groundwork to get the hell out of this broken, leaking house.
• I created a health routine to support my mind and body—because I deserve support, even if it has to come from myself.

And I did all of this while depressed.
While anxious.
While in constant pain.
While overwhelmed by the sheer volume of everything.

So if you’re sitting in your own mess, wondering if you’ve made any progress:
You probably have.
You just haven’t had a minute to look back and see how far you’ve come.

This isn’t a comeback post.

There’s no triumphant return happening here.
This is just me, showing up honestly, in the middle of it.

It’s not done.
It’s not healed.
It’s not tidy.

But I’m still here.

Still healing.
Still hoping.
Still writing my way through the wreckage.

And that counts.

If you’re still here too—barely, quietly, painfully—this is your reminder:

You’re allowed to pause.
You’re allowed to fall apart.
You’re allowed to rebuild slower than anyone expects.

And you’re doing more than enough.

Even when the roof leaks.
Even when the pain spikes.
Even when you can’t find the words.

You are not broken.
You are not behind.
You are not done.

You’re just becoming.
And that is sacred.