I’ve been hiding.
Not intentionally… more like slipping out of myself little by little until I realized I had disappeared from my own routine.

For the past two weeks, something has been off.
During the day, I’ve had moments of genuine joy — laughing, exploring, feeling present and capable. But almost every night, something in me has collapsed into this deep, quiet depression I can’t quite explain. It’s like there’s a version of me that only comes out after sunset — and she’s tired in a way I don’t have language for.

I’ve been overwhelmed, overstimulated, emotionally stretched, and honestly confused by this season of life. I thought leaving the constant pressure of “always doing” would feel like freedom… but the shift to choosing my to-do instead of being defined by it has knocked the breath out of me.

No one tells you how destabilizing it is to slow down.
How much your body panics when you’re no longer running.
How much grief shows up in stillness.

So instead of reaching out or grounding myself, I hid.

I’m realizing that my nervous system has been wired for decades to function in “emergency management mode.” I knew how to survive when everything needed me. I knew how to push through when the world around me was loud, chaotic, and demanding. That version of me was exhausted, but she was competent. She had a job to do.

Now… I get to choose my pace.
And my body doesn’t trust it yet.

It’s like every time things get quiet, my brain hits a panic button:
“You’re missing something.”
“You should be doing more.”
“Why aren’t you solving something?”
“Where’s the next problem?”

And when the “problem” doesn’t exist… it creates one.
Usually in the form of anxiety, skin itching, emotional spirals at bedtime, or that familiar heaviness that sits on my chest for no reason at all.

My days feel full.
My nights feel broken.
And I’m trying to figure out how to bridge that gap.

In the past two weeks, I’ve quietly pulled back from things I normally love — posting, creating, writing, interacting. It wasn’t burnout. It was… freeze.

I felt this strange guilt for not being “on.”
Guilt for resting.
Guilt for slowing down.
Guilt for not feeling grateful enough even though my life looks completely different than it did a year ago.

That guilt turned into avoidance.
And avoidance turned into hiding.

But even while hiding, I’ve still been trying — in small, sometimes reluctant ways — to keep myself tethered to something healthy.

Even when I don’t feel like it.
Even when it feels pointless.
Even when the heaviness wins the night.

I’m still doing these things — not because I want to, but because I’m learning I need to:

• I get outside for at least a few minutes.

Fresh air does something my anxiety can’t argue with.

• I keep making our travel vlogs with Mike.

Even when I feel disconnected, documenting our life helps me remember I’m still living it.

• I show up for small routines.

Washing my face, taking a shower, making a cup of something warm — the basics that anchor me.

• I’m trying to differentiate between sadness and transition.

They feel the same at first, but they aren’t.

• I’m challenging the instinct to isolate.

Even if it’s one message, one conversation, one shared moment.

• I keep creating — softly.

A blog here.
A product idea there.
A caption in the Notes app at 1AM when my mind is too loud.

• I tell the truth when I can.

Like now.
Here.

I’m doing all of this because I know hiding isn’t a solution — it’s a symptom. And symptoms don’t scare me anymore. They just tell me something is shifting.

I don’t know exactly how to get back on track, but maybe that’s the point — maybe I’m not supposed to “get back.” Maybe I’m meant to move forward into something softer, slower, and more intentional… even if it feels unfamiliar.

I have been hiding.
But maybe hiding is just the cocoon phase — the uncomfortable in-between where nothing makes sense yet, but something quietly realigns.

I’m not lost.
I’m transitioning.
And this is what transition looks like for me right now.

If this resonated with what you're feeling in your own quiet moments, explore past posts or listen to this week’s episode of The Her Mood Podcast. There’s always room here for the messy parts of being human.