Reflections from Inside

It’s funny how not living will make you feel like you want to die. And how living to the fullest will require you to die over and over again.

I’ve been inside all year. In all senses of the word.

Mostly because I thought it would be a good idea to get a dog.

Mostly because I’ve recently been told by countless doctors and genetic counselors that I shouldn’t have any more children without doing so through IVF.

Not because I can’t conceive naturally, but because I have a degenerative neurological disorder that’s apparently been slowly eating away at my cerebellum since the day I was born.

An invisible disease, a tangible ancestral genetic curse. One that was unknowingly passed to my grandmother, that my grandmother unknowingly passed to my mom, and that I found out that Mami unknowingly passed to me in 2024.

Of course I’d be the one who finds out early. The one who should be grateful that DNA testing rearranged every aspect of what I thought my future would be years before my balance and cognition got so bad that I couldn’t prepare for them.

Of course I’d be the one who gets to decide whether she wants to play God and bring non-mutated babies into the world, or if my daughter — possibly carrying the same quiet mutation — stays an only child forever because I was granted the “gift” of responsible and genetically-informed conception.

Too much even for the strongest generational curse breaker. Truths too heavy for what already feels like a melting brain.

Unknowingly.

I always wanted two children, but two became three when I lost my only sibling in 2019. I didn’t want my kid to be alone just in case…you know.

Funny when the Universe has already ripped up the tests that you’re mentally preparing for.

Anyway, my husband and I got a puppy, hoping it would fill the shapeshifting hole in my life.

First of all, I love him, but newborns are way easier than puppies. Second, as if my silent anxieties weren’t enough, the Universe landed us a puppy with major separation anxiety.

And so, I’ve been inside all year.
Inside my apartment.
Inside this body.
Inside my head.
Inside this timeline.

Not living, but surviving.

Questioning myself, my ancestors, my soul contract, my past, present, and future.

It’s a very odd and lonely reality being someone who has helped countless others heal and remember who they are, and also having to forget who you thought you were. To reckon with all the ways you are mentally, physically, and spiritually breaking.

The past few months have been some of the hardest — my inflamed body worsening my already degenerating condition. Extreme fatigue and brain fog undoing every attempt I make to keep a wellness routine that feels remotely helpful.

Nothing really feels helpful these days. Throw the whole world into that and seriously…nothing feels good.

I am a person trying to pacify their raging inner child in a world that is not what they were told it was going to be. In a body that doesn’t function in the way that they thought it would.

I am a person trying to ground themselves on tectonic land. Someone who doesn’t have the capacity to alchemize this moment or get back on the internet to lead folks to well-being and liberation without feeling fraudulent.

So I retract. I make myself small enough to hide in plain sight. Quiet enough to only be heard by those who want to listen.

More and more, I forget.

The questioning gets louder.

Myself, my ancestors, my soul contract, my past, present, and future. And questioning, not in a curious way, but in a way that says, “I don’t want [this] shit anymore.”

I would say that no two days are alike, but I’d be lying. However, “this” changes just about daily according to what I’m most sick of at any particular time.

Today I decided that I am sick of suffering silently. Of not creating because I can’t seem to make anything that feels good to make. Of living in the shadows of who I used to be because I’m afraid of being seen starting over.

The truth I’m facing is that, in many ways, I don’t know who I am anymore. And the lie my subconscious keeps telling me is that I’ve failed myself, my community, and the world.

That could very well be true, but I also know that failure is an opportunity to go in another direction.

And just because I don’t know where I’m going doesn’t mean that I can’t learn to enjoy the journey again.

Maybe this is where I start sharing again. From the middle, not the end.