I used to spiral when it happened. The tight chest. The sudden urge to flee a room that felt perfectly safe a second ago. I’d call myself dramatic. Weak. I’d ask what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t just be normal for once. Why the smell of someone’s cologne, or the sound of footsteps in a hallway, could send my whole system into panic.

But I know better now.

Now, when the discomfort creeps in for no obvious reason, I don’t fight it the same way. I don’t demand an explanation from myself. I don’t force myself to be okay. Instead, I make tea. I open the window a little – just enough to let the air shift. I sit with it. Not to wallow, but to be present with whatever old memory my body is carrying, even if my mind doesn’t have the details.

Because sometimes the reaction comes from a place deeper than memory. A place that was shaped before language, before logic. My body remembers moments I’ve long stopped speaking about. And I’ve learned that honoring those signals with gentleness is a kind of self-respect I never had before.

This is what healing looks like for me. Quiet. Tender. Unrushed. Not needing to make sense of every feeling in order to make space for it.