I knew I would end up back here.
Not on this treadmill, I mean. But in this exact mental space. The one that feels familiar in the worst, yet most recognizable way.
Exactly a year ago, I had this worst kind of breakdown. So many things creeped in, all at once; or maybe they had been building for a long time and I had just stopped being able to hold them. Either way, things started failing. Shattering. The worst kind. And I couldn’t label it. I didn’t have the words, or maybe I wasn’t ready for them yet.
So I kept breaking down. And failing apart. And oh god, all the meltdowns.
Until I started running on this treadmill.
Endlessly. In a loop. Run out, come back in. Run out, come back in. The whole year was a turmoil of events I am yet to fully name but what I do know is that the treadmill was where I came to fall apart quietly. I used the physical pain to hide from the emotional and mental weight. The louder the thumping sound got, the easier it was to ignore everything else. The more I ran, the more it told me: hide. Just hide.
And so I hid.
What made it harder was that this has been, without question, the most difficult year of my life. And I say that as someone who grew up not showing feelings much. Not expressing them. Definitely not asking for help. Even when I really wanted to. So, when things fell apart this badly, even admitting that I was struggling felt like its own kind of failure. Asking for help when I truly needed it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
One year later, almost to the mark. And I’m back on the treadmill; not to hide this time, but because I feel the ceiling again. That familiar low, pressing weight. I felt it coming. I think part of me always knew it would return.
What I didn’t expect was how okay I would be with that.
It is going to feel as hard and as heavy as it did before. I know that. I’m not going to pretend there’s some version of this that is light or graceful. But somewhere between the pounding of my feet and the rhythm of my breath, something in me knows: it gets okay. It all gets okay.
I’ve had more thoughts on this treadmill than any journal I’ve ever kept. There is something about moving the body that unfolds the kind of honesty that a blank page can sometimes refuse. Maybe it’s the fact that you can’t stop mid-sentence and edit yourself. You just keep running. You just keep thinking. The thought finishes itself; sometimes even before you finish the run.
I am writing this for anyone who recognizes the feeling. The panting. The breathlessness. The strange comfort of knowing that you have survived this before, even as it presses down again.
You don’t need to name it yet. You don’t need to have words for all of it. Sometimes you just need to keep moving.
And I think this time, I am also closing a few more chapters from the last year. Some long overdue. Some that still hurt in ways I find hard to explain; even to myself. There are people I need to say goodbye to. People who were, in many ways, strangers. And yet. It is stupidly, inexplicably hard. I don’t fully understand it. But I think that’s allowed. You are allowed to grieve something even when you can’t quite name what it is you’re losing. I hope I find the strength. I think I will.
And somehow, eventually, it gets okay.
S.