Permission to Fall Apart (and Shower Eventually)

So, here we are. A random day in June, and I’m sitting here—post-shower (finally), emotionally wrung out, and riding the tail end of a headache that feels like it was delivered straight from the Sadness Fairy with a sledgehammer.

This isn’t one of my usual posts. It’s a one-off… for now. Maybe. We’ll see.

Yesterday hit me like a freight train I didn’t see coming. I fell short of my own expectations this month, and while I’d love to dress it up with a few shiny excuses—Mercury retrograde, the mysterious disappearance of my willpower, I stubbed my toe emotionally or the fact that June is just rude sometimes—the truth is simpler and heavier: I haven’t been okay.

Not in a dramatic, sobbing-on-the-kitchen-floor kind of way. More like a quiet, creeping nothingness that slowly swallows routines whole. Depression doesn’t always show up with mascara-streaked tears. Sometimes it shows up with dry shampoo, unanswered messages, and forgotten vitamins.

Yes, those vitamins—the ones sitting right beside my prescription meds like a neglected sibling. I’ve still been taking the important pills (yay, semi-functionality!) but the rest? Out the window. Along with timely meals, water intake, and... well, hygiene. I changed out of my pajamas and realized I had no clue when I last showered. It could’ve been Tuesday. It could’ve been last Tuesday. Time has gotten slippery.

And it’s not like I noticed it happening. I thought I was doing okay. The meds, the journaling, the self-check-ins—I really thought I was past the worst. But the exhaustion crept in. That bone-deep, soul-heavy kind of tired that naps can’t touch. It had been there for weeks, but I didn’t connect the dots. May took its toll, and I guess June is cashing in the emotional receipts. 

Then, in a moment of innocent digital decluttering, I found a video—Dakota and a friend having one of their usual goofy conversations, with my daughter catching it all on camera. I hit play, and there he was. His voice. His smile. His presence.

And I completely fell apart.

I unraveled quietly, which is my usual style, but thoroughly. I missed him with an ache that defied words. I let it rush over me, and suddenly all the things I hadn’t been doing made sense. The neglect, the numbness, the fatigue—it was all grief, hiding under a mask of “I’m just tired.” I guess I didn't want to admit I have been sad. Deeply sad. And ignoring it so well that I fooled myself. 

So yesterday, I made a choice.

I showered (Applause welcome), I did the dishes from the night before, posted to the blog, and tried to re-enter the land of the living one bold step at a time. And then,  here's the part that matters: I gave myself permission to grieve. Just for a few minutes, I sat with that video and let the pain wash through me instead of stuffing it into a dark corner. I let myself miss my son. I let myself feel it. And weirdly, that felt like progress.  

Grief doesn’t come with a calendar. It doesn’t send you a reminder like, “Hey, time to unravel today!” if you don't give your grief a minute, it'll take a mile, it’ll creep into every unwashed dish, every forgotten vitamin, every lost hour. So I let it have its minute. I let myself cry. I acknowledged the heartbreak. And in doing that, I found a flicker of relief—like I could breathe again, even if just a little. And trying, however clumsily, to start again. To keep showing up. To keep taking bold steps forward—even if sometimes that just means brushing my teeth and crying in peace.      

So today, I'm carrying the remnants of that breakdown. I’m still tired, still tender. But I’m aware now. And awareness is a kind of progress too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a snack and maybe collapse onto the couch  dramatically like a Victorian widow. It’s called balance.   Self-care baby!