A year ago, this moment would have been unimaginable. I could not sit, stand, lie down, walk, or lift anything without intense pain. Picking up a jar from the fridge seared my lower back. Even a purse on my shoulder was too much. Any vertical pressure on my spine felt unbearable.

One moment lingers vividly: my younger son, calm and measured, said, “Your struggles really are the result of the choices you make.” It wasn’t anger, just observation — yet it struck me deeply. Not just the words, but the certainty in how he had learned to see and speak to
me.

Today feels radically different. Earlier, I went down the stairs quickly, unassisted, to get something off the stove — moving without fear and with only manageable pain. The space between then and now is vast.

A year ago, I was just beginning to confront the nature of my relationships. Staying would have been no less painful than leaving. The person I could rely on most was not healthy for me. But conditioned by fear and expectation, I kept “taking what I could get”.

I realized that “taking what I could get” was diminishing my life — my vitality, my grounding. So I stopped. I refused it.

I feel less afraid now. I am grateful for the progress I’ve made. Many of the contributors to my pain — medication mismanagement, frequent hospitalizations, toxic relationships with people who believed themselves infallible — are, for now, behind me.

The journey continues. And in this moment, I see the difference a year has made. I recognize my resilience and growing agency. I no longer accept proximity to those who place their peace above my own (or anyone’s). In this way, the earth feels lonely, but less heartbreaking.

I am grateful for the rare presence of someone who would go to bat for me without compromise — someone whose loyalty requires no calculation, no convenience, no tyranny. This steadiness reminds me that I am not alone.