A list, a rhythm, or a remembering
How do you know you’re returning?
Not just functioning. Not just coping. But coming home to yourself.
For me, it shows up in small ways.
Not declarations, but indicators.
I laugh, and it’s real. Not polite. Not practiced. Just full.
My breathing slows without me telling it to.
I stop bracing for the next thing. I start being in this one.
Food tastes like more than fuel.
I reach for music instead of noise.
I want to move my body not to fix it, but to feel it.
I care less about being understood and more about being honest.
I’m less reactive. More responsive. Even more silent.
Not because I’m numb, but because I’m listening.
I find myself lingering again.
In the kitchen.
At the window.
In the middle of a sentence.
I stop trying to edit the moment and let it arrive as it is.
I start talking to myself gently.
My thoughts loosen. My chest opens. I remember I have a body, not just a schedule.
Sometimes I notice this all at once. Sometimes just one thing.
But even one is enough to say:
You’re on your way back.
How do you know you’re coming back to yourself?