The Day I Crashed (And How Pleasure Shaped My Way Back)
My son had to be admitted to hospital for his adenoid removal. A routine procedure, yes—but not routine for us. He seemed calm enough, but I could feel the hum of anxiety under his skin. A hum that buzzed straight into me.
My nervous system was already fried before we even got there: juggling insurance issues, rearranging life for the other kids, holding down work, pretending I was fine. I wasn’t. I was a mess in a good outfit, breathing through the overwhelm.
The ward was loud—phones ringing, TikToks blaring, everyone trying to drown out their own fear with noise. It gave me a headache. Once he was rolled into theatre, I stepped outside for air. I exhaled. I told myself it would be okay. I believed it, or at least I needed to, so I stepped back into the waiting area and got some work done. When the doctor finally came out to tell me that all had gone well, I could feel relief wash over me. If only for a second …
The moment he opened his eyes, he began spitting blood. What followed were 45 minutes of hell. My son was terrified, and I had to stay right there with him—calm, anchoring him with my presence, even as I felt myself shattering inside. I spoke to him gently while he panicked. I held his hand right back into the ER, until the moment they pushed me out of the room and back into the hallway.
That’s when I crashed.
I bent over under the weight of it all—the fear, the responsibility, the memories of another operation gone wrong … I cried. I cried hard. The kind of crying that comes from the soles of your feet. The kind that demands to be felt with every particle of your being.
Still, I didn’t bounce back. Not instantly.
He was okay. We were okay. After thirteen hours in hospital, we got to go home. We sat up at his bed all night, taking turns watching and the next morning I assured myself that the worst was behind us. Still, I didn’t bounce back. Not instantly. In fact, I’m still easing into my nervous system reset—slowly, deliberately. Because I’ve learned this: if I don't choose softness in moments like these, my body will force it on me.
And so, I come back to myself in pieces. With breath. With broth. With walks by the ocean and tears in the shower. With small joys that remind me we’re still here.
Pleasure taught me how to make these choices—how to listen to my body, not just when it’s purring, but when it’s pleading. How to stop before I break. How to reset.
The power tools that help me navigate these kinds of crashes:
Crying
Crying isn’t weakness. It’s a release. It’s how my nervous system lets go of the storm and finds its way back to stillness.
Breathing deeply
I slow my breath—especially the exhale. It stimulates the vagus nerve and signals to my body that I am safe now.
Rest, stillness, softness
I stop pushing. I soften. I rest beside my son, read books, watch movies, and hold the truth that we are never what happened to us.
Nourishing food
Homemade chicken broth, fresh vegetables, slow meals. Food that comforts, fuels, and gently heals from the inside out.
Walking (especially by the ocean)
Nature calms my mind and body. The rhythm of my feet, the sound of waves, the vastness of the sky—it all reminds me of my place in something bigger.
Pleasure (in all its forms)
Chocolate. Laughter. A beautiful view. A long hug. A deep climax. Pleasure is medicine. It grounds me in the present. It reminds my body it’s okay to feel good again.
Movement & Exercise
I move when I can—dancing, stretching, lifting. It burns off the cortisol, brings the endorphins, shifts my mood.
My body whispers before it screams.
My body whispers before it screams. Tight chest. Shallow breath. Clenched jaw. I’ve learned to listen. To course-correct before I collapse, but I don’t always get it right. Life still throws curveballs—like hospital visits and memory ghosts and way too much noise in small rooms. But I’ve learned how to find my way home after the crash.
To breath.
To body.
To self.
Because even in the mess, there’s magic.