Why I thought progress would feel obvious

I assumed recovery would feel like relief.

Like a clear sense that the hard part was over.

I was waiting for my body to announce that it was okay again.

Instead, things stayed subtle.

And because they were subtle, I missed them.

I confused quiet progress with no progress.

How stability showed up before feeling “better”

Before I felt good, I felt steadier.

Crashes didn’t last as long.

Symptoms didn’t spiral as far.

This made sense only after everything I’d already lived through, including why my nervous system stayed stuck long after mold was gone.

Nothing had disappeared — it just didn’t take over anymore.

My body recovered faster after stress.

Stability arrived before comfort did.

When fewer questions mattered more than fewer symptoms

At some point, I noticed something unexpected.

I wasn’t constantly checking in with my body anymore.

This shift connected closely with when I stopped interrogating every good day.

The absence of panic was easier to miss than the absence of pain.

Symptoms didn’t dominate my thoughts the way they used to.

Healing showed up as less fear, not instant comfort.

Why I didn’t recognize progress until I looked back

Day to day, nothing felt dramatically different.

But when I compared months instead of moments, the change was clear.

This pattern mirrored what I had already learned in why slow recovery didn’t mean failure.

Healing only made sense in hindsight.

I wasn’t “better.”

I was more resilient.

Progress wasn’t dramatic — it was cumulative.

FAQ: the signs I kept overlooking

Shouldn’t healing feel good?
I learned that it often feels neutral long before it feels good.

How do you know recovery is working?
For me, it showed up as shorter setbacks and less fear around them.