Joy, after survival mode

I spent a long time trying to heal myself.

Assuming I was broken.
Treating myself like a patient.
Like something fragile.
Like some kind of burden (until I get “fixed” that is).

Fixed.
I don’t even know what that means anymore.

For years, everything was about calming my nervous system.
Lowering the volume.
Grounding.
Settling.
Making things quiet enough to survive.

And maybe that’s what I needed then.

I do have cptsd.
I have panic attacks.
I know depression well.

Calm kept me alive.

But somewhere along the way, calm broke me.

I didn’t think to seek joy.
I didn’t think to seek adventure.
I thought safety meant minimizing everything.

Being alone feels safe.
I can control the energy around me.
I can keep things predictable.

But when did seeking calm turn into isolation?
When did safety start to look like avoidance?

I’m still grounding.
I still need quiet.
I still pay attention to my limits.

But I’m inviting joy back in.

Small adventure.
Gentle curiosity.
Rebellion.

Finding wonder where I actually live.
In the suburbs.
In the house.
In the middle of a Tuesday.

I’m not trying to be fixed anymore.

I’m trying to live.
I’m living.