Going down the Rabbit Hole

I’m a drama queen. I admit it, fully and without hesitation. A negative thought sneaks into my mind, a tiny whisper that grows into a deafening shout. A scratch on my skin becomes a gaping wound in my imagination, bleeding dread and despair. Logic nudges me, urging me to search for sanity, but my paranoia insists that even a broken clock tells me the right time twice a day. Surely, I tell myself, I’ll be sane at least twice today.

For a long time, I learned to navigate this chaotic landscape of my own making. I found ways to laugh it off, often thanks to my youngest daughter’s playful reminder: “Mom, you’re being extra.” A chuckle, a sigh, and I’d find myself back on solid ground.

But then came retirement in May, a moment I had envisioned as the grand beginning of a new chapter filled with adventure, hope, and a cruise on the horizon. Instead, I had a dream where July hovered like a shadow, a blank space that filled me with dread. Instead of embracing the unknown as a thrilling opportunity, my mind spiraled into darkness. July, in my warped perception, would be my last month breathing.

Frantic, I dove into preparation: updating my will, my living documents, meticulously ensuring my funeral plans were intact. I lay there, frozen, waiting for death to claim me, my bed a cocoon of despair. Hope withered, and I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.

But the universe, in its infinite wisdom, sent my youngest daughter with a message. She’d snitched on me, her innocent concern leading my eldest to act. “Mom, you need to get out of that house.”

Then my second eldest kicked in. She didn’t hold back, not like the others. “Do you really want to be here anymore?”

The question cut through me like a knife, sharp and unforgiving, forcing me to confront the very heart of my torment. I didn’t want to be here. I felt tired, a burden so heavy I could hardly breathe. Worthless. What legacy could I ever leave behind?

Once I admitted it, once I peeled back the layers of denial, my child sprang into action. She connected me with wise souls who could see me, truly see me. With trembling hands, I ventured into the unknown—crystals, holistic practices. I began to unearth the roots of my self-worth, a process both frightening and freeing.

I spoke with a Certified Life Coach, and within moments, the dam broke. I was a waterfall of pain and release, sobbing like I hadn’t in years. Finally, someone acknowledged me, my struggles, my fears. As we dug deep together, I felt a spark of relief and empowerment flicker within me. It was as if the fog was slowly lifting, revealing glimmers of light that had been obscured for far too long.

With the session, I slipped on new perspectives like a coat of armor. My coach armed me with homework—not just tasks to complete, but ways to reclaim my identity and strength. I left the conversation feeling lighter, filled with new energy and purpose.

The path ahead won’t be linear; I know that. But as I navigate these uncharted waters, each step feels a little less daunting. Maybe, just maybe, the legacy I leave behind is not in monumental deeds, but in the quiet resilience of learning to embrace life in all its chaotic beauty once more.

As I follow her guidance, do the things I’m told. I’m finding a new leaf of life. I’m booked for the rest of September. Researching natural methods to help with cancer and chemo side effects. Attending activities that will help to improve my mind, body and spirit. All in all, trying to live my best life. No matter how short or long it will be.