A Life Lived at a Distance

For most of my life, I lived at a distance from myself.

From the outside, things looked stable enough. I worked, I provided, I handled responsibilities, and I moved through the world in a way that most people would probably call normal. But internally there was always a separation—like the person doing the living and the person meant to experience it were not fully the same. I was present in my life, but not entirely connected to it.

For a long time, I believed that was simply how adulthood worked. You carry your obligations, keep moving forward, and don’t spend too much time examining the quiet emptiness that sometimes sits in the background. You assume everyone else must feel some version of it too.

Over the past couple of years, something began to change. Slowly at first, almost instinctively, I started making small adjustments to my life. I picked up the guitar and practiced regularly. I tried to build routines that looked like health and normalcy. I didn’t fully understand why I was doing these things at the time, but looking back, it feels like some part of me was already trying to move toward stability.

Then something deeper happened. I woke up to the realization that I had been living most of my life disconnected from parts of myself. That awareness didn’t come gently. It brought clarity, but it also brought weight. Once you see the distance you’ve been living with, you can’t pretend it isn’t there anymore.

The trip to Mexico intensified that realization. For a brief time, I experienced what it felt like to live with a different rhythm, a different sense of presence. But coming home was harder than I expected. My return didn’t feel like a continuation of that clarity—it felt more like hitting the ground after being suspended in the air. The contrast exposed how much strain had been sitting beneath the surface of my life.

Since then, the cost of everything I’ve been carrying has started to show itself in my body. My heart rhythm has been erratic. I’ve had sudden waves of nausea at work that force me to step outside for air. I feel a strange pressure sometimes, like time is running out even though I can’t explain what that means. It’s not panic exactly, but it’s not calm either.

At first I tried to push through it the way I always have. But eventually I had to admit something I’ve resisted for years: I can’t continue living this way.

For the first time in my life, I sat down with my doctor and said the words out loud. I told him what had been happening—how my body feels, how my mind has been processing things, how the pressure has been building. Instead of dismissing it, he listened. And after everything was said and done, he recommended something I’ve never done before: stepping away from work for a period of time so I can recover.

Even saying that still feels strange. I’ve never taken leave like this before. Part of me feels uncomfortable relying on systems meant to support people who can’t work. But another part of me understands that this is not about giving up responsibility. It’s about giving my mind and body the space they need to stabilize after years of strain.

Over the next couple of months, my goals are surprisingly simple. I want to move my body again through light exercise. I want to find a mental health provider who can help me navigate what I’ve been unpacking. And I want to return to small things that reconnect me with myself—like picking up my guitar and letting my hands remember something familiar.

None of this feels like a grand transformation. If anything, it feels like the opposite. It feels like slowing down long enough to rebuild a foundation that should have been there all along.

I’m still in the middle of this process. Some days feel heavy, and there are moments when the path forward isn’t clear. But one thing has become certain.

I spent most of my life living at a distance from myself.

I can’t continue living that way anymore.