I’m approaching the end of a three-year journey and it feels surreal. I knew graduate school would be a challenge. I knew the journey I’ve been on with my mind and body would also continue to be a challenge. What I didn’t quite expect was how the combination of these paths amidst the general chaos of life would impact my mental and physical wellbeing. And, relatedly, the lessons I would learn and internal shifts I would experience as a result of being stretched to the edges of my stress threshold.
I’ve watched my mind and body cope with juggling several roles/identities/responsibilities in ways I never knew I could. This is not some badge of honor I wear. The truth is, this juggling act — like most — has taken its toll. I’ve watched myself course-correct when I inevitably dropped a ball, as I desperately struggled to keep them all in play. I watched as the shadowy parts of me rose to the surface in the form of unhealthy, but familiar coping mechanisms … how easily they swept back in to replace those I’d worked so hard to create in the “before times.” I watched as my mind warred with itself — the negative voices often getting the final word.
These three years have included loss, grief, stress and pain, as well as joy, growth, learning and love. I’ve been in a cocoon, my social life perhaps as small as it has ever been. This cocoon hasn’t been cozy and comforting most days. It’s felt compressing and uncomfortable, pushing and pulling me, stretching me to edges that feel sharp and unfamiliar.
I’ve discovered the power old beliefs and behavior patterns that once brought comfort or created an illusion of safety can still have in my life. And, through my work with clients, I’ve become aware of the wounded areas inside me still tender and in need of deeper healing.
I’ve experienced a resiliency fraught with a depth and fierceness of emotion that has made my breath ragged and shaky with fear and uncertainty. I’ve gotten lost and realized the more I struggled in the darkness, the tighter its tentacles squeezed around me.
It’s only been in this last leg of this chapter that I’ve finally begun to truly let go of my resistance to change, my fear of the unknown, my fear of failure, my fear of disappointing others — of disappointing myself. This chrysalis shedding is painful and scary. It’s slow, and strange and confusing. And sometimes, it feels like my caterpillar legs are reforming and trying to pull me back to a time when things felt more stable, in control, predicable and familiar. But, that’s the funny thing about time. It’s also an illusion. All I’ve ever really had control of is this moment.
I still haven’t figured out the healthiest, wisest, most beneficial use of “this moment” for this version of me. I still feel wobbly, uncertain of myself. But, one thing I can say about time — and memory — is that it reminds me I’ve done this before. I know this dance. And I’ll find my rhythm again.