I live a lot of lives, but there are two in which I walk a very defined line. 

Last October, I caught a virus that spiraled into a viral pneumonia, that spiraled into a “super bug,” that spiraled my anxiety out of control. I was in the hospital for roughly two weeks. There was one point where I came home, but still could barely breathe. I went back to the hospital a day later. One of my employees told me recently that he thought I might die. I never told any of them, but the thought crossed my mind too. 

There are stories upon stories, layers upon layers of how complex this story is, and how complex it still is when I get sick—and there’s a time and place for those. 

This one is about aftermath. 

Most people know me as the easy-going, generally happy, funny lady who takes things head-on. That is me, most of the time. 

There’s a switch in me that flips sometimes, though, and it feels like the world might end, despite all of my rationale. 

It’s been a journey, like many chapters in this story. 

I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in nearly a year. I’ve worked through a lot, managed my anxiety to the point where I don’t need medication, and I can handle most things thrown at me.
But there’s a flip that switches, and I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes your world will get turned upside down, sometimes things will happen that are entirely out of control, and it doesn’t help to act like that won’t change you. It doesn’t help to act like anxiety and depression are words we’ve made up, when no one would choose these experiences. 

So, some days I can’t breathe. Some days I wouldn’t get out of bed if it weren’t for the fact that people physically lift me out. Some nights my sweats aren’t because I keep my apartments’ thermostat at a billion degrees. I don’t know how much of it is genetics. I don’t know how much is experience. I don’t know how much of it is PTSD. Sometimes there’s a cloud over me that all of my strength can’t get rid of, and an anxious heart that can’t be settled.

But it never lasts forever, even if it feels that way.  

The flip switches back. The sun comes out. The breathing gets a little easier. The air, a little sweeter. 

It’s hard to see the end when you’re stuck in the middle, and it’s excruciating to deal with it alone. We are a resilient bunch, but we are much stronger by numbers. 

It’s not easy, I just think it’s worth talking about. I don’t want to run from any tunnels anymore. 

I don’t want to fear half of my dichotomy. 

the jump.

I find myself jumping more often than not these days.

I’ve seen a lot of people live their lives with the sentiment that “one day” they will be happy, “one day” they will do what they really want, one day they will jump. I’m learning that there isn’t a “one day.”

To lead a life that isn’t aligned with what you truly believe is a prison sentence.

There are a lot of things I believe in, but I’ve spent the majority of my life following different paths than the one that felt most true to me. Usually it’s out of comfort, sometimes it’s been out of deceit. Most of the time I just don’t believe I can, or that it’s worth it. More often than not it’s out of fear. Sometimes it’s pure ignorance, or what I’ve been told, but most of the time I make a lot of excuses. I think a lot of us do.

It’s easier to convince myself I’m not capable—especially when the rest of the world is telling me so. It’s easier to believe all of the lies because it’s more comfortable than doing the hard thing. It’s easier to have stability than uncertainty. It’s harder to try than it is to stay the same.

I just don’t think it’s worth it anymore.

Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m a dreamer. Maybe I believe there has to be more to life than a dead-end job, relationship, or being.

So, I quit my day job. I started over and jumped into a pool of uncertainty, and I’m still jumping. Life does not stop for anyone, but personally, it has been one never-stopping roller coaster for most of my life. I’m learning to enjoy the ride.


I have a lot of things to say.

I have a whole lot of story that’s been crammed into a short amount of years, and I’m only beginning to unravel it all. I understand that I won’t always have the words to put some concepts that are far too big into something malleable, and that’s okay. Some concepts can’t be condensed to a blog post anyhow; they are still part of a story that needs to be told.

Sometimes my story will be lighthearted and show how much of an asshole I really am, or how insecure I really am, or how hilarious I really am (sometimes.) Sometimes it will be less lighthearted, and hit things that are hard to talk about. I’ll get angry, and say things I probably don’t mean, but I think that’s part of telling the story. It’s not just for others, it’s for me, and I don’t believe in censorship.

Sometimes my words will come out in a jumbled mess, and sometimes they’ll make sense, or they won’t, but I’m going to keep writing.

I’m jumping again.