The lowest point of my life felt surprisingly manageable. No breakdowns. No dramatic sobbing on the bathroom floor. Just an eerie kind of calm. Like I’d hit the bottom so hard, everything inside me had stopped rattling. And then… silence.
I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. But because staying still was easier. Safer. I knew what to expect down there. No more surprises. No more crashes. Just the weight of nothing pressing down, warm and oddly soothing—like a weighted blanket you didn’t ask for.
I started building routines in that stillness. Made friends with the quiet. Rearranged the furniture in my own stuckness. Told myself I was recovering. But I wasn’t. I was nesting in my own avoidance.
Turns out, rock bottom doesn’t hurt. It hums. And the longer you lie there, the more it convinces you that getting up is optional.
But one day, I caught myself. I was jealous of someone’s energy. Their hunger. Their motion. And it hit me: I hadn’t wanted anything in a while. Not really. I’d confused being unbothered with being okay.
That was the real crack in the floor. Wanting again. Just enough to notice how numb I’d gone. Just enough to stand.
Getting up didn’t feel brave. It felt ridiculous. But I did it anyway.
Because as cozy as rock bottom gets, it doesn’t have windows.
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