Trying to connect with your inner world can feel like standing trial in your own mind. But that confusion and pushback isn’t failure—it’s the beginning of internal relationship.

After a lifetime of performing to be liked, medicating to feel normal, and questioning whether I even had a core self, I’m finally starting to feel what it means to be a person. Not a role, not a diagnosis—just a person. It’s disorienting, sobering, and strangely relieving.

After years of thinking embodiment and coherence were just New Age fluff, I'm realizing something else: there is a grounded, emergent self inside me—and it isn't a spiritual concept. It's just what it means to be human.

When your inner identity collapses, it can feel less like healing and more like a psychological freefall. But this disorientation isn’t the end—it’s a passage. You’re not just unraveling. You’re emerging.

The “void” isn’t just some poetic abyss—it’s the disorienting silence that arrives when you stop performing. This post explores how the sense of being watched, the panic of dead air, and the collapse of identity scripts are all part of what it means to unmask, deprogram, and finally meet yourself without the noise.

In my early evangelical years, miracles were considered history. But when I joined a charismatic missions group, I was expected to believe in limb-regrowing events—and blamed myself when they didn’t happen. This post unpacks how that spiritual disorientation shaped my nervous system and how it still haunts my healing work today.

After a lifetime of filtering reality through religion, trauma, and perfectionism, I’m finally learning to ask a new question—not “Do I make sense?” but “What context have I not yet honored?” This post tracks my shift from self-doubt to self-trust, from hypervigilance to emerging maturity, and from religious obedience to embodied truth.

I’ve spent my life shaping myself into someone who’s easy to love—attentive, graceful, unproblematic—hoping others would finally meet me with the depth and care I craved. Instead, I’ve ended up unseen, exhausted, and carrying more than my share. This post explores the healing fantasy that keeps me chasing emotional safety and the role self I’ve had to play to earn scraps of connection.

In 2008, I had my first panic attack—alone, terrified, and dismissed by the medical system I thought I could trust. That moment convinced me I was on my own in a malfunctioning body, and I’ve been trying to outrun that feeling ever since.

Sometimes my body floods with fear and strange sensations—nausea, tingling, heat, tension—without any clear reason. I've spent a lifetime trying to survive these episodes, waiting them out. But now I'm asking: What if it's not a malfunction? What if it's my nervous system trying to speak?