May Reflection

Fuck, May was heavy.

Grief. Anniversaries. My body throwing absolute tantrums. Mental health hanging on by a thread some days. Packing up my life. Juggling a million things at once.

It felt like every time I got my feet underneath me, something else came along and knocked me sideways.

I'm not going to dress it up and pretend it was some beautiful season of growth.

It was hard.

There were days where I was exhausted before I'd even started the day. Days where my nervous system was screaming at me. Days where the grief hit out of nowhere. Days where I wondered how much more I could hold.

And right now?

My life is literally in boxes.

Everything that makes me feel safe, grounded and settled is packed away somewhere. I'm living in that weird in-between space, waiting to move into my new house and trying not to lose my shit in the process.

People who haven't experienced it probably don't get it.

"It's only temporary."

Sure.

But when you've spent years learning that safety matters, that familiar matters, that routine matters, having your whole life packed into boxes can feel incredibly unsettling.

The things that keep me regulated are the little things.

My routines. My rituals. My familiar spaces. My creature comforts. The things that tell my nervous system, you're safe here.

Right now, those things feel scattered.

On top of everything else, my body hasn’t exactly been quiet either.

I’m still battling inflammation in my gut. Still dealing with thyroid issues and heading back to the doctor again. I’ve had a few FND flare-ups. My PPPD has been on high.

My body has been loud all month.

And I’m tired of it, if I’m honest.

Tired of symptoms.
Tired of flare-ups.
Tired of trying to function while everything feels off.

So yeah… I was bloody happy to see the back of May.

May can get in the bin.

I’m carrying enough already without grief, anniversaries, health challenges, packing, uncertainty, and my own body deciding to throw in extra chaos.

June isn’t about thriving.

June is about creating some kind of normality while everything feels upside down.

It’s getting back to pole classes. Making a decent dinner. Dragging myself onto the infrared mat. Seeing good people. Holding onto small rituals that help me feel like me again.

Because right now, stability isn’t a big dramatic thing.

It’s tiny.

It’s repetitive.

It’s survival disguised as routine.

And I’m leaning into that.

Because eventually the boxes will be unpacked. Eventually there’ll be a new front door to walk through. Eventually I’ll build a new sense of home again.

But right now?

I’m just getting through it.

One day. One step. One moment at a time.