that's life

I have been in this perpetual state of physical discomfort for the past four weeks.

I have been able to physically feel my heart beating at all hours of the day. Not just when I’m anxious or have a presentation, but when I’m sitting in bed, watching a show and drinking chamomile tea.

I feel every sensation. Every movement.

It’s uncomfortable.

This led to insomnia. I was physically exhausted but mentally stimulated. Sleep aids didn’t work. Late-night snacks didn’t work. A 45-minute sleep meditation didn’t even work.

I started to panic.

I had never struggled with sleep before, and I’ve heard horror stories about insomnia. I’ve read the studies on the effects of long-term sleep deprivation. I know all the warnings about sleep aids.

Dementia.

Probably my biggest fear.

My mind is my greatest asset. I want to protect it at any cost.

That didn’t help the worrying at all.

I felt like the teens in Nightmare on Elm Street, trying to stay awake to resist the monsters that come out at night.

Then, without warning, it stopped.

By day three of my England trip, the constant monitoring of my heart had settled. I was physically and mentally exhausted at night. The silence felt almost suspicious.

It’s because you’re relaxed.

You’re on vacation mode.

Everyone’s problems go away on vacation.

You don’t have to deal with the day-to-day hustle of your life.

This isn’t some existential awakening.

Everyone experiences this.

However, I was not relaxed on this trip.

I reflected constantly, experienced immense grief at times and spent the first two days in a near-constant state of fight-or-flight while driving on the left side of the road and clipping curbs with my front left tire every ten minutes. The warning light on my rental car, complete with a little coffee mug instructing me to "Pull over and rest," appeared so often that it started to feel less like a safety feature and more like a personal attack.

So I knew it wasn’t that.

Instead, it was satisfaction.

Not because I had packed every moment full or visited every town I wanted to see.

It was something deeper than that.

I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Every night, I laid my head on the pillow feeling at peace with how I had spent the day.

I was content.

Satisfied with the seconds, minutes and hours that made up each day.

That feeling lasted for about a week after I returned home.

I thought, Finally. I figured it out.

I was in a state of bliss, even after returning to my familiar routines.

But slowly, glimpses of my old life started to creep back in.

Having someone lean on their horn for five straight seconds because I drifted slightly into their lane.

Getting an exorbitant bill for annual blood work that should have been covered by my already exorbitant insurance.

The little irritations that seem insignificant until they aren’t.

Slowly, glimpses of my old life started creeping back in.

Then this week, I felt the shift complete itself.

I found myself surrounded by fluorescent lights, sterile white walls and hold music that sounded like it belonged in a funeral home.

Yesterday, it all came to a head.

My shirt started to feel too tight.

Constricting.

Claustrophobic.

I kept pulling the fabric away from my chest, right beneath my heart, stretching the cotton as far as it would go before it snapped back into place.

Then a quiet voice returned.

Soft. Almost muffled.

Like it was buried beneath the sand.

The one I had always carried with me but had learned to ignore.

Drink it away.

Scroll it away.

It sounded almost like a future version of myself calling from somewhere far away.

The one that would force me to confront the possibility that something in my life needed to change.

You’re wasting your time.

Every second you sit in this chair feeling hopeless is a second you’ll never get back.

Is this how you want to feel forty years from now?

But this time, I didn’t drown it out.

I don’t think I could have if I tried.

Anger began to rise.

Not sadness.

Pure unadulterated anger.

I felt trapped. As though I were being buried alive while dirt slowly accumulated above me. As though I were locked inside a glass coffin, watching the water steadily rise.

Like I would scrape tooth and nail to escape this prison I was in.

And yet, I wasn’t trapped.

That was the terrifying part.

As uncomfortable as it was, I realized I could stop the feeling at any time.

So I did.

I thought the bliss would immediately return.

It didn’t.

What came instead was the familiar pounding in my chest.

Oh no. It’s back.

For years, I have treated every discomfort like a puzzle.

It started with my gut issues.

My alcohol consumption.

My sadness for no apparent reason.

My lack of direction.

Now the insomnia.

The pounding in my chest.

If I could just find the answer, I thought, everything would finally make sense.

Maybe that’s why this feels different.

I don’t actually know what my heartbeat is trying to tell me.

I don’t know why it disappeared in England.

I don’t know why it returned while I sat in a fluorescent office on hold for 2 hours with Southern Connecticut Gas.

Yes, I have my theories.

Yes, I’ve received plenty of unsolicited advice.

But all I know for absolutely certain is that I noticed it.

For a long time, my instinct was to explain every feeling.

Diagnose it.

Fix it.

Tell the people closest to me, This is it. The missing link. Everything will be better now. So they can finally stop worrying about me.

But lately, I’ve been wondering what would happen if I stopped.

If I simply paid attention.

If I treated it like research instead of a problem to solve.

The heartbeat.

The exhaustion.

The relief.

The moments that make me feel more alive.

The moments that make me feel like I’m dying.

I used to think the goal was to find the answer.

Now I’m not so sure.