Ava Heartwell

I wasn’t doing more at home. I wasn’t pushing myself. And yet somehow, being inside felt heavier and more exhausting than being out in the world.

Nothing dramatic set it off — everyday sounds, lights, and sensations just landed harder. What changed wasn’t the world, but how much my body could comfortably receive indoors.

I was physically there. The door was closed. The day was over. And still, inside my home, my body felt suspended — like it hadn’t fully landed.

By the end of the day, I hadn’t done anything extreme — but my body felt depleted faster at home. What surprised me was how much the environment shaped that end-of-day crash.

Nothing was actively wrong. I wasn’t in pain. And yet inside my home, my body carried a quiet sense of waiting, as if relief was always just out of reach.

I wasn’t stuck in stress — I just couldn’t shift out of it. Even when nothing was happening, my body stayed one notch above calm, like the switch to settle never quite flipped.

Nothing was actively wrong. I wasn’t tense in an obvious way. And yet inside my home, my body stayed subtly braced, as if it never fully released its hold.

Nothing looked wrong with my home — it just felt dense. Like the space itself asked more of my body than it should have, even on quiet days.

Nothing was wrong. I wasn’t in danger. And yet inside my home, my body stayed slightly alert, as if full relaxation never quite arrived.

I could still show up emotionally — I just couldn’t sustain it for as long. My feelings didn’t become bigger; they became harder to carry over time.