I’ve been avoiding my Substack.

However, if I fully lean into the discomfort of introspection, as 10 years of therapy has taught me, I have been running away from putting my thoughts down where I have to confront them.

Life feels heavy right now—so heavy that sometimes it feels like a perpetual extra ten pounds is pressing against the strain of my already crooked back. Back-to-back stress, trauma, and uncertainty have left me feeling like I need a long, deep stretch—one that would finally release something, a pop that lets the tension go.

On days where a 15-minute check-in with a friend turns into an hours long catch up, seeing new and old friends realize their dreams, chicken katsu curry with extra gravy, cuddles with my cat, and conversations with my mom that make me feel grateful for our growth have felt like deep stretches towards relief lately.

But one bout of comparing myself to strangers, news of another marginalized group being terrorized, slow months where I’m living paycheck to paycheck, navigating this industry while in ED recovery, and living with chronic pain have pulled me into what can feel like an exhausting two-step. Whenever I feel like I’ve moved one step forward, like clockwork, I find myself uncoordinatedly sauntering two steps back.

The voices of reason in my life have been saying, “comparison is the thief of joy,” “your timeline isn’t someone else’s,” and “fear of something not being perfect will keep you stuck,” and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can finally really hear them with some fine-tuning. I’m calling out my negative self-talk, revisiting a few goals, and learning to trust my gut again.

Depression and anxiety, coupled with chronic pain, can make political and economic uncertainty feel more intense. (Don’t even get me started on the ways being Black, disabled and gay compound that intensity.) Identifying what I can control—asking for help, taking breaks, saying yes to jobs that see my value, and taking every small opportunity to be a kind and supportive member of my community—has helped ease some of the discomfort through this return to myself. The thought I’m pinning for myself this week is from my sister: “Bitch, you almost died! Look how far you’ve come!” While she’s my little sister, and sarcastic prodding is her love language, I’m inclined to agree.