The Quiet Return to Strength
How inspiration, good people, and a re-wired mind are helping me find my way back to myself
The Strange Shape of Healing
Healing doesn’t look heroic.
Most days it looks like getting out of bed with a nervous system that still whispers:
“Are you sure we’re safe?”
And after years of growing up under volatile authority, living through narcissistic chaos, and working in a toxic environment that hollowed me out from the inside…
Yeah — even thinking about returning to work now feels like someone handed me kryptonite wrapped in an email notification.
That doesn’t make me weak. It means my system finally refuses to lie to me.
When the Body Finally Speaks
For months, my body has been trying to recover.
Foggy mornings. Moments of clarity that vanish as fast as they come. A constant sense that I’m running a marathon in mud.
It’s not illness.
It’s not failure.
It’s what happens when the body says:
“We cannot live one more day pretending this is normal.”
And honestly… I’m finally listening.
The Aphantasia Puzzle — And Losing My Photographic Memory
Finding out I have aphantasia was both shocking and relieving.
As a kid, I had a photographic memory. I could reread entire books in my mind — the actual pages, line by line.
But years of stress, survival mode, and emotional compression rewired my brain.
Now, I don’t see images at all.
But I see structure.
I see patterns.
I see the why behind things.
At work, colleagues speak in law paragraph numbers as if the labels themselves carried meaning. Some people quote law references the way kids quote Harry Potter spells: “Article 247.13… expecto burnouteum!”
But I don’t think in spells.
I think in architecture.
My brain doesn’t store labels — it stores logic and systemic understanding.
And that’s not a flaw. It’s actually what allowed me to handle complex, ambiguous files with ease while others got stuck.
My brain didn’t lose a tool. It evolved into another kind of intelligence.
Strength Comes Back Quietly — And Unevenly
Here’s the truth:
My “quiet return to strength” isn’t some triumphant arc.
My strength shows up in short bursts — an hour of clarity here, a spark of motivation there — followed by a crash of exhaustion that could give an old Hollywood fainting couch a run for its money.
And when there’s that much upheaval happening under the surface, I get quieter than usual. Not withdrawn — just pulled inward by the sheer effort of rebuilding myself one spark at a time.
Véronique notices it instantly. She’ll look at me the way someone checks if their Wi-Fi is buffering — gently, worried, perceptive. Not because she thinks something is wrong with her, but because she feels the internal tremors I don’t voice.
My quiet isn’t distance.
It’s healing consuming every ounce of bandwidth I have.
Inspiration Comes in Unflashy Forms
There’s a teacher in my psychology program who isn’t charismatic or theatrical.
She doesn’t try to dazzle.
But her passion?
Pure, steady, contagious.
She’s the kind of person who genuinely loves psychology.
And watching her love it makes me remember why I chose this path in the first place.
Not for prestige.
Not for escape.
But for meaning.
My Strengths — The Ones I Forgot I Had
Burnout stole my confidence,
but stepping back reminded me of something essential:
I’m not here because I broke. I’m here because I stayed strong long past the point anyone should.
When I slowed down long enough to breathe, my real strengths resurfaced:
• I think in patterns, not labels.
When others drown in codes and procedures, I follow the logic beneath them.
• I read people deeply — especially the unspoken.
It’s a survival skill I learned early, and ironically, it’s now one of my greatest strengths as a future clinician.
• I’m built for meaning, not bureaucracy.
• I reinvent myself without losing myself.
• I’m wired for belonging, not submission.
These aren’t weaknesses.
These are the exact strengths that make me suited for psychology.
And Then Came Véronique
If the last years were a storm, Véronique is that calm patch of sky you don’t trust at first because it feels unreal.
But it is real.
She doesn’t rush me.
She doesn’t shame me for slowing down.
She doesn’t measure my worth in productivity.
She repeats, softly and consistently:
“Everyday we do our best but our best may differ from one day to another”
It took me years to understand that.
But she’s teaching me that rest isn’t failure.
It’s respect.
And after years of being judged for the smallest moment of stillness — this feels like freedom.
When the Body Slows, the Mind Expands
Right now, my body needs gentleness.
But my mind?
My mind is blooming.
Studying psychology.
Reading authors who open new windows in me.
Writing about things I used to bury.
Using AI to organize ideas into mental shelves
I didn’t even know I had access to.
It’s like stepping away from toxic authority finally gave my brain the oxygen it was starving for.
The Work Kryptonite Reflex
Here’s the part I wish I could hide but won’t:
Even imagining going back to work
makes my body react instantly.
Cold hands.
Tight chest.
Mind fogging over like someone pulled a power cable in my brain.
It’s not theatrical.
It’s not convenient.
It’s what happens when your nervous system has learned — deeply —
that an environment is unsafe.
And stepping back into it isn’t bravery.
It’s self-destruction.
Real Moment
These days, everything feels slower — but the world around me didn’t slow down at all.
And that’s the part that frustrates me most.
Emails keep coming.
Expectations keep piling.
Life keeps demanding things from me at a pace my body simply can’t follow right now.
It’s like I’m moving through thick snow while everyone else is jogging on dry pavement.
Some days, all I can manage is not falling further behind — and even though it doesn’t feel like progress, it’s still resistance against collapse.
It’s still something.
Other days, I catch a glimpse of the man I used to be — the one who could carry three people’s workload without breaking a sweat.
But the truth is, I’m not supposed to go back to that version of myself.
He was fast, yes.
Efficient, yes.
But he was burning alive on the inside.
So I’m learning a new way — slower, more humane, more forgiving — even while everything around me keeps moving at full speed.
And I’ll be honest: the memory of the old me, the one who could do the impossible without blinking, still haunts me most days.
And despite the frustration, despite the guilt of “not keeping up,” my direction has never been clearer:
I’m not falling behind.
I’m rebuilding forward.
One Tool — Align Your Priorities With Who You Are Today
Here’s something I’m finally learning the hard way:
You can’t make choices based on the version of yourself you used to be.
Not the overperformer.
Not the people-pleaser.
Not the one who could outrun exhaustion for years.
Your priorities have to match the person you are right now —
with the energy you have,
the nervous system you have,
and the limits your body is loudly insisting on.
So here’s the tool:
Before deciding anything — a task, a commitment, even a conversation — ask yourself one question:
“Does this move me forward without chipping away at my well-being?”
If the answer is yes: do it.
If the answer is no: it’s not a priority.
Not today.
This isn’t laziness.
It’s integrity.
Because priorities aren’t just about what’s important —
they’re about what’s sustainable,
what’s aligned with your healing,
and what supports the person you’re becoming.
And the truth is:
When your priorities match your real energy instead of your imagined obligations,
healing stops being an obstacle…
and becomes your direction.
Micro Win
This week, I faced a task list that looked like a hydra — cut off one item and four more grow back.
I used to fight the hydra every day.
Now I make eye contact with one head at a time
and tell the other seven to wait their turn.
For the first time,
I reprioritized based on healing instead of pressure.
Some days that meant renovations.
Some days studying.
Some days rest.
Some days simply surviving the afternoon.
Self-care still feels foreign, but I’m choosing the tasks
that support my healing instead of punishing myself with the ones that don’t.
It’s not glamorous.
But it’s progress.
And it’s enough.
If You’re Here
If you’re here, maybe it’s because something in my story echoes inside yours — that quiet fear of being too slow for life, too tired for its demands, too human for its expectations.
If that’s true, let me tell you what I remind myself almost daily now:
You’re allowed to rest.
You’re allowed to soften.
You’re allowed to protect your well-being before you protect anyone’s expectations of you.
And you don’t owe the world a heroic comeback.
You owe yourself a humane one.
So if you’re here, sitting in your own quiet return to strength:
Welcome.
Take your time.
I’m right here with you.
