Steadying, Shedding, and Starting Again
“Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must shed our past over and over again.”
Last Thursday night, we felt another whiplash, and this time it stuck harder. We haven't been the same since. From the moment it began, nothing could shake it—not cognitive reframing, not positive affirmations, not reciting personal mantras, not reminding myself who I am, not even prayers. Since we suffered this setback, we spend our days catching and flipping rumination loops, fighting to channel the pain without suppression. That particular night, I told myself I would sit with it all: the nerve-wracking emotional pain, the soul-deep aches, the mental battlefield. And then there was my body—completely still, contradicting the chaos within. However, within a few minutes, sitting with it was making me feel even more miserable. This isn't my forte—I deal with pain using emotional intelligence and coping mechanisms. I'm a fighter. I don't do vulnerable, I don't do passive—I power through everything. Something had to work.
Crying is useless, so I don't engage in it. All it leaves me is a headache, puffy eyes, and mental weakness. I wonder how people claim it gives them relief. Anyway, safe to say crying wasn't an option, so I went to the living room, sat on the couch, and turned on Ted Lasso on Apple TV+ through Prime Video, which has been perfect for distraction on heavy days. As I sat down, I felt my body shaking. I was looking at the TV, but my vision was foggy; I couldn't see the interface clearly. The remote was shaking as I held it—I had to cling to it to reaffirm my composure.
I felt you whisper, "You are still in charge." I tried to breathe, so I put down my hand. With my lips super dry and my mouth hanging open, I forced myself to begin breathing exercises. We believe so much in breathing exercises; in fact, it's been one of our best coping mechanisms. I wonder why I didn't think of it earlier. A few deep breaths in, I began to feel my body again. Like a veil being pulled away, the fog lifted from my eyes, and then I could see where the Ted Lasso show icon was—bottom left, right there in the Apple TV+ section on Prime's main page. A moment ago, it wasn't there, but then there it was. I was gonna simply click the resume button and launch into my temporary escape, the perfect distraction to get through the night. Or so I thought.
Something wasn't right. I felt the regained power slipping away. Fear gripped me. It felt like we were drowning, and I reached out to grab my phone, needing to connect with someone, but who? Familiar thoughts crept in: I know that I can't trust human beings—my ingrained history of people not showing up for me as I would love them to, coupled with my healed codependency. How dare I outsource our betterment to external capacity? We have been everything for each other. We have built and nurtured a strong foundation to protect us from the world and all its adversities. What if this is a mistake? What if I choose the wrong person? What do I say since I can't articulate my thoughts clearly? I can't say I have lost control. Do I want them to see me in this moment of weakness? Do I want them to laugh at me? I must stay formidable so they can't see me sweat.
I heard you, but I wasn’t listening. My focus was on steadying us, but not at the cost of leaving us naked. But since I couldn't, how else could I protect us? How could I shed this layer? I wished I could have just clicked a button and snapped us out of this. My mind was racing with 10,000 thoughts, no signal leading toward a shining light at the end of this tunnel—I failed us!
While still holding the phone, I took another deep breath, then chose to message Dee, as I fondly called him—my ex, who is a mirror to my past and an anchor to the woman I am today. We rebuilt through the cracks he left in these walls, brick by brick, and it took blood, sweat, and tears. But for an unknown reason, in this low moment, he felt like the safest option. I reached out and asked, "Are you happy?" I needed an easy way to break the iceberg without dumping the emptiness I felt. He responded almost immediately, stating how he doesn't attach much importance to the word happiness since it's relative. From there, we started to analyze life's chapters—how each has its burdens, how new phases only transform struggle rather than eliminate it, and how we must keep moving forward.
For a brief moment, I began to stabilize, not knowing what was coming. A few minutes later, he no longer responded. I kept waiting, watching my phone screen, feeling that familiar ache of abandonment creeping in. The bridge he had become was crumbling, and my pain came pouring back in. My chest began to pound. I stood up and released this long, soul-wrecking 'Oooohhhhh!!!,' followed by another loud 'Arghhhh!!!' I wrapped my arms around myself, holding on tight because I felt so hollow. I began pacing around my kitchen, my chest tight with panic. When I got to my refrigerator, I considered having a drink, knowing my stance against using alcohol as a band-aid. Thank goodness I didn't succumb.
Suddenly, it hit me—you wanted us to face this fight together, but I misinterpreted your signals. As someone who powers through everything, I thought "facing the fight" meant more action, more coping mechanisms. You were trying to tell me something I couldn't compute: sometimes the fight is learning to be still. If only I had understood that sitting with it wasn't giving up—it was a different kind of strength. But because my usual tools weren't working, I gave up and went searching for relief through a layer we had previously shed.
However, just as a snake doesn't judge itself for needing to shed again, maybe I can extend myself some grace. For someone who never allows vulnerability, who always pushes through, this slip felt like a complete failure of who I am. But everyone has chapters where our greatest strength becomes our limitation. In that moment, my fighter instinct—usually my superpower—became the very thing that kept me from healing.
Looking deeper now, is it really a failure if we learned from it? Remember, we do not self-loathe or mull over regrets; instead, we search for insights, mine the lessons for next time. This experience taught me it's time to shed again and start over. But it also taught me something deeper—sometimes my fighter brain needs to learn when to fight and when to allow. You were trying to tell me something I couldn't compute: that not every problem needs MORE action. Moving forward, I can be graceful yet more mindful of my choices and expand my toolkit without abandoning my strengths. Above all, we must protect our agency, together.
The snake doesn't apologize for growing. Neither will we.
Till next time, we repent, reset, and rise…