FREEFALL
If you’ve ever felt like you were tumbling too, you’re not crazy. You’re just awake.
I don’t know how else to describe it except to say I feel like I’ve fallen down a deep, dark well and I haven’t found the bottom yet. I’m not gently floating—I’m tumbling. There’s no foothold. No wall to press my hand against. Just blackness and velocity. And the sickening awareness that I can’t catch my breath.
I didn’t expect it to hit me like this. I woke up in the middle of the night—again. My thoughts were racing, but one thing kept surfacing: Scott and I were used. Played like pawns in a political game we didn’t even know we were part of. And when I say "played," I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean literally manipulated, our names and presence leveraged to give the illusion of community, of support, of transparency—when the real decisions were made behind doors we were never meant to open.
There’s a letter of intent, supposedly found on the street. It just so happened to appear a few steps from where Scott and I sit every day for coffee—within view of city employees walking from City Hall. It’s as if someone dropped it there like a breadcrumb, or a warning, or a performance. And maybe I’m being paranoid, maybe I’m not. But the effect is the same: I feel exposed. Violated. Hung up on a flagpole for everyone to gawk at while pretending they don’t see me bleeding.
And I feel weary.
Not just tired. Not just frustrated. But spiritually bone-weary. I feel like my sovereignty has slipped through my fingers. I was doing so well—centered, creative, grounded in who I am and why I’m here. And now? I can’t even bring myself to write a full post, and I’m the woman who has always found her way back through words.
Even my body is reacting. My sinuses are draining like crazy—as if my whole system is trying to purge the grief and confusion. It’s like my body knows I’ve taken a psychic blow before my brain can fully process it.
I’ve tried. I woke up this morning and made myself think of something positive, made a little list in my head to anchor me. But nothing shifted. No spark. No lift. Just the thick weight of sadness and betrayal pressing against my chest.
And through all of this, like a strange soundtrack, the song “Starry Starry Night” keeps looping in the background of my mind. It’s been there for hours, soft but insistent. A song about beauty, madness, misunderstanding—about an artist who gave everything and was left with silence. And I don’t think it’s playing by accident. My soul is whispering through it, reminding me that I’m not alone in this ache. That even in the unraveling, I am still connected to something timeless, something tender.
And yet, even in this dark freefall, a tiny voice inside me says: This isn’t the end. This is the middle. The unraveling always precedes the return. And maybe I can’t force my way back to the surface, but I can stop flailing. I can float. I can trust that when the fall slows and I land—because I will land—it will be on something solid. And it will be me.
Today, I’m not offering wisdom. I’m not offering solutions. I’m not asking you to look on the bright side or reframe this into some cute lesson.
I’m just telling the truth:
I am in it. And I am tired. But I’m still here.
If you’ve ever felt like you were tumbling too, you’re not crazy. You’re just awake.
And we will find our way back. Not because we rush it. But because we remember who we are.
Even in the dark.
This is my life too...