I used to measure progress by how much I could tolerate. Faster felt braver. Harder felt productive. It took time to understand that healing didn’t depend on how quickly I moved toxins out — it depended on whether my nervous system felt safe enough to let anything move at all.

I didn’t expect detox to reach so deeply into my emotions. The panic, the sudden tears, the nights my body refused to settle — none of it felt logical. What I eventually understood was that detox wasn’t creating these reactions. It was uncovering a nervous system that had been holding on for a very long time.

I didn’t expect detox to affect my nervous system so deeply. The anxiety, the wired feeling, the sleepless nights — none of it felt like healing at the time. It took me a while to understand that my body wasn’t breaking down. It was overstimulated.

No one prepared me for how ordinary mold detox would feel. Not dramatic. Not linear. Just a quiet series of small, confusing days where I kept wondering if anything was actually happening at all.

I used to think detox failed because I hadn’t found the right protocol yet. What I eventually learned was harder to accept: my body wasn’t resisting healing — it was protecting itself because it didn’t feel ready.

I thought the hardest part of mold recovery would be finding the right tools. I didn’t realize the real mistake happens much earlier — in the way we approach detox before our bodies feel safe enough to participate.

I didn’t realize I was going too fast because no one ever framed speed as a problem. It wasn’t until my body started pushing back in subtle, confusing ways that I understood detox has a pace — and crossing it comes with consequences.

I didn’t expect detox to make me feel worse. I thought feeling awful meant I was doing something wrong — until I realized my body wasn’t failing me, it was reacting to being pushed faster than it could safely process.