🫧🫀 Waiting With My Body 🫧🫀

🫧🫀 Waiting With My Body 🫧🫀

I am waiting with my body, and I don’t know how to do this without fear tagging along. I don’t know how to listen without watching too closely. I don’t know how to rest without wondering if rest is safe. 🫀

It started with fainting.

Not dramatic, not cinematic — just sudden moments where my body said no more before my mind could catch up. Feeling lightheaded. Going gray at the edges. Having to sit or lie down fast so I didn’t lose the world completely. 🫧

The first time, I tried to explain it away. Fatigue. Stress. Dehydration. Anything that meant I didn’t have to look too hard at what was happening. But it kept happening. And eventually, explaining it away stopped working. 🪞

The ER is strange like that. Bright lights. Calm voices. People who move quickly but don’t rush you. They ran tests. Did an EKG. Asked questions I didn’t know how to answer clearly because everything felt fuzzy and unfinished. I wasn’t sent home with answers — just with instructions, referrals, and the strange reassurance of being told I was okay for now. 🧎

Now there’s a cardiology referral. The words heart monitor and syncope written down in black and white. Future appointments waiting for me. A pause where nothing is actively happening, but everything feels loaded. 🪢

What no one really prepares you for is the after.

The quiet once the machines are gone.

The way your body feels louder when you’re alone with it again. 🌬

At night, especially, my awareness sharpens. My heartbeat feels impossible to ignore. Falling asleep feels like letting go of control, and letting go of control feels dangerous when your body has recently proven it can surprise you. I don’t want to monitor myself — but I also don’t want to miss something important. 🫀

I keep trying to find the “right” level of attention.

Not hypervigilant.

Not dismissive.

Just present.

I don’t always succeed. 🪡

Sometimes I put my hand on my chest — not to count, not to check — just to ground myself. Just to remind myself that I’m still here. That fainting didn’t mean disappearing. That my body isn’t trying to betray me, even if I don’t understand it yet. 🫶

The hardest part is the waiting without a name. I want something concrete. A reason. A label that would let me say, this is what’s happening and this is how I fix it. But right now all I have is experience. Sensation. Uncertainty. And fear that comes and goes without asking permission. 🫧

This kind of waiting is exhausting.

Not because something is constantly happening —

but because something might.

And my nervous system doesn’t know how to relax around “might.” 🫀

Faith has changed shape here. It doesn’t look like confidence or declarations. It looks like asking God to sit with me instead of solve me. Like whispering prayers in the dark that sound more like, Please help me not panic, than anything polished or brave. 🕯🙏

I am trying not to turn my body into a problem to solve.

I am trying not to treat it like a ticking clock.

I am trying to remember that listening doesn’t mean accusing. 🪴

Some days I do that well.

Some days I don’t.

So I am waiting with my body — not patiently, not perfectly, not courageously.

Just honestly.

Just one moment at a time.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Still learning how to stay without rushing ahead to answers I don’t have yet. 🤍🕊