2026 Didn’t Start Gently

I didn’t expect the first week of 2026 to begin with a car accident.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Literally.

One second I was just living — in my body, in my routine, in my life — and the next, everything collapsed. Sound dropped out. Time distorted. My body reacted before my brain could even catch up. There was a moment where I genuinely didn’t know if I was going to make it.

I did.

But I didn’t come back the same.

What no one really prepares you for is the aftermath. The part where you’re technically “okay,” but nothing inside you feels settled yet. Where people say you’re lucky — and you know they’re right — but your nervous system hasn’t caught up to that reality.

I have a body full of injuries, and with them comes a fog I can’t outrun. My memory doesn’t move in a straight line anymore — it flickers. Some moments hit me with sharp clarity, like they’re burned in. Others feel unreachable, like they’re already slipping through my hands no matter how tightly I try to hold on. That scares me more than I expected. I want to trust my mind. I want to remember. I want to understand what my body survived. But parts of the accident feel blurred, softened, almost erased, as if my brain is choosing what I’m allowed to keep. And losing those details feels like losing control — like the story happened to me, but I don’t get to fully hold it. Sitting in that uncertainty hurts in a way I don’t have words for yet.

Here’s the part that feels hardest to admit:

I help people get grounded for a living. I sit with people in their darkest moments. I teach breathing, regulation, perspective, hope. I am — unapologetically — one of the most optimistic people I know. I believe deeply in healing. In resilience. In the idea that things can get better, even when they’re hard. And right now, grounding feels unfamiliar to me.

Some days my body feels here but my nervous system hasn’t figured out how to land yet. Some days even the tools I offer others feel just out of reach. And that has brought up a lot of humility, and a lot of tenderness, and a quiet reminder that knowing something and living it are very different experiences. And underneath all of it — there’s heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly.

The kind that just sits there.

Heavy. Quiet. Persistent.

I’m broken right now. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that asks to be fixed. Just in the deeply human way that comes when life hits you harder than you were prepared for.

If you’ve ever experienced something that broke your heart — a relationship ending, a loss you didn’t see coming, a betrayal, or even the quiet grief of realizing life isn’t unfolding the way you thought it would — I’m right here with you.

This kind of broken doesn’t scream.

It looks like staring off into space.

It looks like tears showing up without warning.

It looks like feeling grateful and devastated at the same time.

I am deeply grateful for my support circle. Truly. The people who check in, who sit with me, who remind me I don’t have to carry this alone. I feel held.

And still — damn. There is grief in realizing how fragile everything is. In knowing how quickly life can change. In understanding that no amount of strength, insight, optimism, or preparation makes you immune to pain.

This year didn’t start with excitement or intention.

It didn’t start with motivation or clarity.

It didn’t start with vision boards or fresh goals.

I don’t have resolutions yet.

I don’t have a word for the year.

I don’t even fully trust my own memory right now.

What I do have is breath. And a body that’s trying its best to heal. And a deep, humbling respect for slowing down — even when the world tells us to keep going.

This year started with survival.

With fear.

With a broken heart.

And with the quiet, daily decision to stay.

Some days I feel overwhelming gratitude to be alive. Other days I feel sad, shaken, and unsure of who I even am in this moment. Both versions of me exist. Neither is wrong.

If you’re in your twenties or beyond, you probably recognize this feeling — the moment life humbles you. When your heart hurts, your body feels tired, and the future feels uncertain all at once.

If your year started with loss…

With fear…

With heartbreak…

With a version of yourself you don’t fully recognize yet…

You’re not behind.

You’re not weak.

You’re not failing.

I’m here too.

We are human.

I didn’t expect 2026 to start like this.

But I’m still here.

And right now — even like this — that feels like enough.