Listening to your body

It hit me out of nowhere.

One moment, I was powering through my day—

checking boxes, pushing forward.

The next, I was frozen.

Heart pounding. head spinning.

Vision closing in like I was collapsing inward.

Panic.

The full-body kind.

Sudden. Consuming. Crippling.

And yet—what struck me wasn’t just the panic itself.

It was the recognition.

That familiar, echoing feeling…

like an old part of me had come rushing back, desperate to be heard.

The Body Keeps a Different Calendar

I hadn’t felt that level of panic in years.

Not since the early days—

when I was grinding through life at full speed,

believing that productivity was safety, and momentum was worth.

Back then, I believed:

If I stayed busy enough, needed enough, useful enough—maybe I’d never have to feel the weight beneath it all.

But the truth is this:

The body remembers what the mind tries to outrun.

It stores the stress.

The grief.

The shame.

The parts of us we’d rather not deal with.

And when you don’t check in…

your body will check in for you.

The Cost of Not Slowing Down

Here’s what I’ve come to see:

It doesn’t matter how “good” your life looks on the outside—

How much freedom you have, how clean your diet is, how “successful” your story appears.

If you don’t slow down long enough to feel what’s real,

to listen to the subtle signals your nervous system is sending,

it’ll catch up to you.

Eventually, the pretending cracks.

That moment of panic was my body waving a red flag:

“I don’t want your performance—I want your presence.”

Truth Isn’t Always Comfortable—But It Heals

That moment shattered something.

Not just the illusion of “I’m fine.”

But the subtle performance I’d been unconsciously keeping up—

The curated vulnerability.

The shares that looked raw but didn’t cost me anything.

That panic showed me:

Real honesty isn’t about appearing open.

It’s about being willing to be seen—even in the mess.

So I got quiet.

And I got honest.

First with myself.

Then, I started sharing differently.

Not to prove anything.

But to finally breathe.

Movement as Medicine

That same day, I laced up my shoes and ran.

Not to escape—but to move what I couldn’t yet name.

There’s something primal about running.

A rhythm that bypasses the mind.

With each step, each breath, it was as if my body was saying:

“You’re not broken. You’re not stuck. Just keep moving.”

This wasn’t about metrics.

It wasn’t for Strava, or speed, or personal bests.

It was medicine.

Because sometimes, healing isn’t found in stillness.

Sometimes, it lives in motion.

In the breath.

In the space between effort and surrender.

Redefining What It Means to Heal

We live in a culture obsessed with fixing.

Pills. Programs. Hacks.

Get better. Feel better. Look better—fast.

But real healing is slower.

It’s messier.

It’s not linear.

It’s saying:

• I don’t need to be perfect to be whole.

• I can be in process and still be powerful.

• I don’t need to hide behind strength to be safe.

And more than anything:

I can trust myself—enough to feel.

From Performing to Living

That panic attack didn’t break me.

It woke me up.

To how far I’d drifted from my body.

To how often I’d confused presence with performance.

To how much I still needed to feel—and heal.

So this is where I am now:

Running.

Writing.

Showing up.

Some days tired.

Some days full.

But every day—honest.

Not trying to be someone.

Just becoming more myself.

If You’ve Been Carrying It Too

If you’ve been pushing through the days,

ignoring the quiet ache beneath the surface—

I want you to know this:

You’re not weak for feeling.

You’re not broken for bending.

And you don’t have to carry it alone.

Maybe healing isn’t about getting back to who you were—

Maybe it’s about arriving fully into who you are.

What I’m Learning

• Truth heals—but only when you’re ready to feel it.

• Presence is power.

• Movement is medicine.

• Strength isn’t performance—it’s embodiment.

And I’m walking it out.