It’s hard to explain how fast it changes. I can be fully present – listening, laughing, even making eye contact – and then suddenly, something in me goes quiet. It doesn’t always take a trigger. Sometimes it’s just a tone, a pause, a glance that lasts a second too long. And just like that, I’m not in the room anymore.

I’m still sitting there, nodding in all the right places. But inside, I’ve gone still. My body tightens. My breath shallows. It feels like falling into water I didn’t know was there – like sinking into something I thought I already escaped.

It’s not a memory I can point to. Not always. It’s a feeling. A grip around my chest. A haze in my mind. Like some part of me decided it wasn’t safe, and flipped the switch before I even noticed. And now I’m here, but not really. Stuck in a loop I didn’t press play on. Frozen in a moment that looks invisible to everyone else.

And that’s the hardest part – how well I’ve learned to mask it. How no one sees the quiet unraveling happening underneath the surface. How I’ve learned to keep my voice steady while my nervous system shuts the lights off inside.