entry twenty seven – scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
There is a peculiar kind of relief in finally being believed.
In having the things you’ve struggled to explain, the things you’ve telt in your body, and in your intuition and soul, and tried to put into words, become something tangible.
Something recognizable.
Something with a name.
It was in this moment that everything changed.
I wasn’t celebrating the possibility of being sick.
I was relieved that I hadn’t imagined being unwell
Sometimes, the most frightening answers are also the ones that finally let you exhale.
c. / / 2 0 2 6
the minute the room changed
The clock on the wall read the same time it had been reading. Nothing about the room looked different. Same light, same quiet, same everything. But in a single moment everything in me changed. It wasn’t a “good” moment, but I was happy about it.
I was happy… again.
I hadn’t been happy in so long. I’d felt like I was the only one living in reality. I’d spent so much time trying to explain what I was experiencing. The strange symptoms, the things that didn’t feel right, the things I knew were happening even when I couldn’t quite find the words to describe them. The things I KNEW God was showing me.
There were obvious explanations offered, of course. Hormones. Stress. Recovery. Grief. Maybe a little of this, maybe a little of that.
Except I knew something else was going on. I’d been saying it all along… and then came the words that changed everything.
It wasn’t necessarily good news. In fact, there’s a lot about what comes next that I don’t know yet, and I’m not pretending otherwise. But I cannot adequately explain the relief I felt in that moment. I think someone who hasn’t experienced it might have a hard time understanding why a potentially terrible diagnosis could make someone feel so relieved.
But I wasn’t relieved because I was sick. I was relieved because I wasn’t imagining it. Because the things I’d been trying to communicate for so long were finally being acknowledged. There was something tangible to point to, something that connected the dots, something that said, yes, this is happening. No, you are NOT crazy, or lazy, or a problem.
I remember thinking, “I told you I was experiencing these things. I’m so glad there is definitive proof now. Thank you, science.” 😂
I think that’s the thing that stays with me the most loudly. It’s not the diagnosis itself, not even the uncertainty of what it means for the future, but the sheer exhaustion of knowing something is wrong and not being able to make anyone else understand what you’re trying to tell them.
There’s a peculiar kind of relief in finally being believed. Even when what you’re being believed about isn’t something you ever wanted to be true. Somehow this has become one of the most beautiful moments of my entire life. I finally proved myself. All it took was three more vials of my blood.
I don’t know what this next chapter looks like. I have some things to learn, some things to process, and undoubtedly some things to navigate. But that particular moment is going to stay with me.
The clock kept ticking. The room stayed the same.
I didn’t.
Thank you, God.
🥹🙌😌