Before I Wake

Before I Wake - Life Is a Storm

My day starts with a deep ache in my chest. Waking up knowing she’s not here in this world. She’s not here when I wake up. It isn’t thought out. It’s instant—the moment I come back here. It’s like the heart knows what realm it’s entering during the transition, with no heads up.

It’s not that it doesn’t hurt when I’m asleep, because it does. This pain is constant. Just easier to carry on some days. It deepens with realization, right before my eyes can open. It just is.

This has been my life since she left.

There isn’t even a moment of neutrality.

That isn’t drama. It’s neurological. Grief hits before logic boots up. Reality loads immediately. The brain registers absence, and the heart responds in kind. The attachment system fires with nowhere to land. That’s the ache. Not philosophy. A bond the body still expects to be there.

And the exhaustion layered on top of that is cumulative load. Grief alone is heavy, but it isn’t arriving alone.

There’s sleep disruption. Job instability. The pressure of identity — provider, builder, creator — all running at once. Hustle mode doesn’t shut off just because the heart is tired. And dissociation, when it lifts, leaves its own kind of fatigue behind.

That’s not weakness. That’s overload.

I was planning on going to church today because I actually have time for it. But I didn’t wake up early enough.

Yes, there’s the sleeping pill — sometimes it lingers. Mostly it doesn’t when it’s the prescription kind, not over-the-counter.

But if I’m honest, life has just been heavy lately. I’m drained. I’m tired. Sleep hasn’t been consistent. The job chaos. The hustling to line something up. The constant mental shifting. It adds up.

Missing church isn’t spiritual failure. It’s a nervous system under sustained strain. When the body is overloaded, it prioritizes recovery whether you approve of it or not. Even machines shut down when overheated.

Dissociating definitely played a role over the past couple of weeks.

But I can feel myself starting to come back — re-entering. That matters. When the numbness loosens, even slightly, it means the system isn’t shielding as aggressively.

And I really need that trip. A camping trip. I need nature. Not something luxurious. Not escape in comfort. Just space.

It’s hard when there are responsibilities. But what good are responsibilities if I’m not here mentally? That’s not avoidance. That’s awareness.

If the trip is recalibration and not escape, then it’s strategic. A controlled reset. Water. Trees. Open air. Breaks in the mundane bring my mind back.

The truth is sometimes simpler than we want it to be, or realize. We’re hard on ourselves as humans — especially those who care.

I’m not broken. I’m overloaded. And when a system carries too much for too long, it requires decompression, not more discipline layered on top.

Sleep shouldn’t come with guilt. Rest doesn’t need an apology. Church isn’t confined to a building, and if my body needed recovery today, then that was the practice.

And that instant ache when I wake up?

It’s love displaced.

Not weakness. Just what remains when you love someone who’s gone.

I’m still here. That’s all.




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