When Momentum Halts

I have been so sick the last couple of days.

And I have to tell you,

there’s nothing glamorous about being sick.

No wisdom waiting in the fever.

No hidden lesson in the congestion, the headache,

the stillness I didn’t choose.

Just the frustration of momentum slamming to a halt

after months — years — of clawing my way back into my own life.

It’s wild how fast it happens.

One day I’m writing into the future,

feeling forward motion in my body again,

and the next I’m horizontal,

stuck with nothing but tissues, tea,

and a brain that insists on replaying the past.

Sickness pulls the old thoughts up like weeds:

the loneliness,

the ache for comfort,

the memories that don’t deserve this kind of replay.

It softens the edges of clarity

and makes the old patterns look familiar again —

not because they’re true,

but because fatigue makes everything feel heavier.

And yet…

there’s something different this time.

Because even in the fog,

I know how to take care of myself now.

I know how to name what’s happening

instead of believing it.

I know that when my body is drained,

my mind reaches backward.

I know that when the world shrinks,

old attachments whisper louder.

I know that a sick day can feel like a setback

even when it’s nothing more than biology

doing what biology does.

So today, I practice the kind of self-love

I didn’t even know existed years ago:

gentle, steady, non-negotiable.

I let myself rest.

I text a few people,

even though it still feels strange to ask for care.

I remind myself that comfort is allowed —

that needing tenderness doesn’t undo my strength.

And I widen the lens,

because the truth is this:

Love — real love, healthy love — isn’t a distant horizon.

It’s already gathering in small, unmistakable ways:

in the new conversations that spark something in me,

in the warmth of people who are just starting to enter my life,

in the quiet chemistry of being seen, chosen, and enjoyed

without confusion or complication.

There is something taking shape —

not a fantasy, not a projection,

but the early architecture of connection.

The beginnings of laughter with someone new,

the ease of being wanted,

the steady glow of friendships deepening,

the sense that affection is returning to my life

in forms that feel clean, honest, and mutual.

So today I let myself lie still,

not because I’m stuck,

but because life is working on my behalf

even in the stillness.

Momentum hasn’t vanished;

it’s gathering strength in the wings,

waiting to walk back in with me

when this fever breaks.