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Nothing was acutely wrong. Nothing needed fixing. And yet inside my home, my body stayed quietly expectant, as if relief was just about to arrive — but never quite did.

I could think clearly — I just couldn’t stay with a thought. Focus slipped not because my mind was cloudy, but because my body couldn’t fully settle into attention.

I was physically present. I knew where I was. And yet inside my home, I rarely felt fully arrived, as if some part of me stayed just outside the moment.

I couldn’t point to a symptom, a diagnosis, or a clear reason — just a persistent sense that something wasn’t right. That vague feeling turned out to be one of the most honest signals I had.

Nothing was loud. Nothing was happening. And yet inside my home, my mind felt fuller and harder to rest than it ever did elsewhere.

Nothing was actively happening. And yet inside my home, my body rarely felt finished — as if it was constantly paused mid-process.

I thought recovery would make everything feel easier. Instead, some symptoms felt louder — not because I was regressing, but because my body was finally paying attention.

I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t stressed. And yet, inside my home, my body stayed in a quiet state of holding I didn’t consciously choose.

Nothing was unresolved. The moment had ended. And yet inside my home, the emotional residue lingered longer than it did anywhere else.

Nothing was loud. Nothing was wrong. And yet, silence at home felt heavier than it did anywhere else.