It is 7am

She opens her eyes and they begin to burn and scratch.
Before the first thought has even entered her mind, she feels it.
The panic that presses her chest and wraps itself around her throat.
Still shocking yet familiar after all this time.
In the close distance she hears the kids awake and the breath in her lungs quickens, in and out.
The boys begin to bicker, softly at first and then louder.
A turf war escalating.
She knows that is her own heart she can feel, pounding like it is searching for a peaceful place to rest.
The hands of anxiety tighten around her torso.
Strong and unrelenting
Another day is beginning and she must face it.
She swings her legs around and sits upright, her feet hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
It is 7am.

I wrote this. I wrote it about me.
Somehow the words come out more easily if I write it like it's about someone else.
Someone else like me.
This is how anxiety sits in my world right now. Not on every day, but on many.
I am ok. I don't want any one reading this to be worried or heaven forbid, think that I am "not coping".
I am, mostly.

I am grappling with things on so many levels that it feels exhausting and overwhelming.
There are endings to grieve. Natural endings and lost potential.
There are beginnings and achievements to celebrate too. They are not forgotten in the maelstrom.
Fear and anticipation are present in some of the new.
Sadness is a companion and exhaustion loves the ride too.

I talk about this with some who are deeply trusted.
The talking helps, releases the pressure valve.
But in so many ways, the rationality of those conversations never quite matches the swirling internal dialogue of emotions. It's a wave. A wave of change where the swell rises and must break before the waters find the calm.

Image via we heart it