What happens when the things that once grounded you—like weeding, working, or even binge-watching—suddenly feel hollow or compulsive? When your nervous system starts to unwind after years of override, even rest can feel like collapse. This piece explores the quiet panic of that in-between state, where the only thing left to do is feel.

This piece explores how art became mystified, why many of us feel cut off from it after trauma, and what it really is underneath the performance: a primal way to release internal pressure in a world that gave us no safe outlet.

This post explores how conceptual and performance art challenge the definition of art itself—using Paul Reubens’ Pee-wee Herman character as a case study. If you’ve ever felt confused, alienated, or curious about this kind of art, this is for you.

Watching "Dying for Sex" cracked something open in me that I can’t fully name. The tears weren’t clean sadness—they were something older, deeper, and less verbal. I didn’t just cry; I felt the shape of emotions that live below language, below memory, below time.

Lately, I don’t feel the pull to share my emotions with others. The act of translating them into words feels forced, like something I’ve outgrown. It’s a shift—away from expression and toward private integration.

When you feel afraid but aren't sure why, it’s easy to spiral into shame. Especially when race is part of the picture. This piece unpacks what’s really happening in your nervous system—and why noticing it is part of unlearning, not failing.

I didn’t plan for weed pulling to become my new ritual—but hour after hour, crouched in my backyard with dirt under my nails, something started to shift. Not just in the yard, but in me. This isn’t about gardening. It’s about how slow, private, repetitive actions can become the most honest way to meet yourself.

Limbic crushes can feel like a mix of hunger, awe, and panic. They aren't always about love or sex—they're often the body's way of responding to emotional resonance and safety after long periods of neglect or suppression.

A friend showed me how to live without leaning on false hope or collapsing into despair. He hikes off-grid and lets reality be reality. I think I’m ready for that—but my body still panics, my mind still spirals, and I’m still bingeing to stay afloat. This is the tension I’m learning to live inside.

After years of survival mode, I’ve slowed down. But instead of peace, I’m facing fear, dread, and the strange pressure of an unstructured life. This isn’t failure—it’s the hard part of healing most people never talk about.