The Death of an Old Operating System
Or: Why I Feel Strange, Quiet, and a Little Bit Like an Alien Right Now
The Death of an Old Operating System
(Or: Why I Feel Strange, Quiet, and a Little Bit Like an Alien Right Now)
This morning, I caught myself trying to get mad.
Yes, you read that right. I actually went looking for something to irritate me. Something to push against. Something to spark movement in my system.
Why?
Because when you’ve lived your life in survival mode, energy has always arrived through fire. Conflict. Urgency. Striving. Rebuilding. Proving. Solving. Fixing.
That’s the operating system I’ve run on for more than sixty years.
And now it’s… gone.
I don’t have a better word for it yet.
But something in me—something ancient and bone-deep—has gone quiet. The old machinery that used to hum, buzz, rattle, and spark all day long… has powered down.
No warning. No ceremony.
Just click. Silence.
So here I am. Sitting in my chair. Thinking about groceries. Thinking about getting dressed. Sitting at my desk watching the gentle snow coming down, wondering what’s next.
And noticing that nothing—absolutely nothing—is pulling me forward in the way it used to.
It’s disorienting. It’s uncomfortable.
It feels like walking around in a life I finally earned… but don’t quite know how to inhabit yet.
And I want to say this out loud because some of you are here too. Or you’ll be here soon.
This is what it feels like when the old operating system dies.
It’s the moment your nervous system realizes the crisis has passed. The fire is out. The rubble is cleared.
The survival version of you—the one who always knew how to claw her way back—has finally been allowed to rest.
And rest feels foreign.
Rest feels suspicious.
Rest feels like something must be wrong.
I used to think “becoming myself” would feel like fireworks.
Turns out, it feels like stillness.
A deep, warm kind of stillness I don’t yet know how to trust.
I keep thinking I should feel inspired, lit up, bursting with ideas… especially after these incredible weeks on Substack.
But no.
I feel… quiet.
Not depressed. Not stuck. Just stripped down to the studs.
And here’s the truth I’m beginning to see.
This isn’t me giving up.
This is me shedding a version of myself that only knew how to live through effort.
It’s the death of the woman who ran on adrenaline.
The death of the woman who needed something to push against.
The death of the woman who lived inside a perpetual rebuild.
And I’m not sure I know who I am without her yet.
A new operating system is coming online—one based on calm, clarity, and soul-led motion. Not panic, pressure, or noise.
But like any reboot, there’s a moment where the screen goes black.
No cursor. No signal. No idea what’s loading next.
That’s where I am today. In the black-screen moment.
And I wanted you to know.
Because if you ever feel this too, I want you to recognize it for what it is.
Not failure.
Not laziness.
Not losing your spark.
It’s the transition between who you were and who you’re becoming.
We aren’t meant to live our entire lives on the emergency setting. Eventually, if we’re lucky, the soul pulls the power cord on the old machine so a new one can come online.
So if you’re in your own quiet season, your own strange pause, your own moment of “I don’t know what to do with myself”—welcome.
You’re not broken.
You’re just rebooting.
And the next chapter… well, I have a feeling it will be built on something far stronger than survival.
It will be built on you.
PS. Writing this today did something unexpected. It nudged me back toward the easel. I haven’t painted in two weeks, and these morning glories have been waiting for me to return. So while the snow falls outside my studio windows, I’ll be standing here brushing color into flowers that only bloom in the warmth of morning. Their faces always remind me what joy feels like when it first wakes up. Maybe that’s exactly the energy my new operating system needs.
If you have someone in your life who would benefit from following a real woman’s journey out of survival and into soul-led living — especially during the holidays when so many of us feel invisible or overwhelmed — consider gifting them a subscription.
I’m offering a special holiday discount through December 31 for anyone who wants to join us inside this unfolding
.Curious about my body of art work? Please visit here :
MONICA’S ART ON SUBSTACK
My 29 year old son died 6 years ago. I’ve read these comments and have thought that this may be what is happening to me - 12 years of emergencies of chronic disease with him - and at his death I was suddenly cut free of the worry and dread and adrenaline of having a seriously ill child with almost
weekly emergencies. I felt like my umbilical cord to a space ship was cut and I was left floating in space. 6 years later I haven’t really moved forward with the “reinventing” of myself…am I on hold? Am I rebooting? Am I resting before the next becoming? Do I find a hobby? Do I live
for just me? ( still have a hub). I’m 68 - I’m just not sure what’s going on. Maybe I am on hold - my body resting from all the trauma. I just don’t know.
Wow, love this line: "...It feels like walking around in a life I finally earned… but don’t quite know how to inhabit yet."
Feel like I relate beyond measure to it. I enjoy (& appreciate) your posts so much, Monica. Thank you.