What Life Feels Like On Pause

Last year in June, I was lying in bed reading a book. I had taken the day off, feeling sick. I propped myself up on my left side and turned the book to face me when it looked like an eclipse appeared in the top right corner of my left eye. A small patch of my vision went blank. I thought that maybe I was tired, that I'd been reading too much. I decided to sleep it off—but to my surprise, when I woke up, I still couldn't see out of that portion of my eye.

A few days went by. I brought it up to the people around me, asking if anyone had experienced or heard of what happened to me. Tests and tests later, I finally got around to a doctor who told me what had happened: my retina had detached.

That was just the beginning of a journey I had no idea would change my life as drastically as it has. I went back to check on my eyes six months after my first surgery, only to be told: both of my retinas had detached.

Fast forward another six months, and I have now had five surgeries on my eyes since last June. My vision has been altered not just by the detachments but also by laser treatments, a scleral buckle, and cataract removals in both eyes. I miss steps, trip over broken sidewalks, need reading glasses to read a book, and I have lost vision in the direct center of my left eye.

And the toll on my mental health? That has been a journey all of its own.

Losing vision for months meant I couldn't drive. After one major surgery, I suddenly found myself locked indoors for months. I was working from home, spending so much time alone. And while I very much enjoy my time alone and the sanctuary I've created—it was starting to wear on me—especially during the winter months. Depending on others for help wasn't hard to ask for, but I was growing tired of not being able to do things myself.

What really started to bother me during this time wasn't just the physical limitations—it was the feeling that I had been forced to step out of the current. I sat by as people came in and out of my home—their lives consistently moving forward—posting, building, achieving—they were able to do anything they wanted while I was frozen.

I felt like I was falling behind in some way. I have hit that point in my 20s where I feel like I'm running out of time, even though I know I have so many years ahead. But being in this quiet space with just my thoughts, I started to realize how much we're conditioned to believe in constant progress so long as we are always moving, always doing. That every day should be a step toward something else, that healing should follow a timeline, and if you're not "better" yet, you're not trying hard enough. That wanting more or taking time is somehow wrong.

Healing my eyes has forced me to slow down. And through that stillness, I began healing in more ways than I'd realized I needed. I had to unlearn the idea that stillness somehow equated to nothingness. I had come to understand that surviving these physical changes wasn't the only accomplishment, nor the only goal. I was alone to face myself in ways I hadn't had time to before—and it wasn't about running or rushing, it was about shifting.

When life was busy—I had my daily routines, plans with my friends, errands, work—so much went untouched. I hadn't recognized how much grief and trauma I hadn't processed, how much I'd been pushing down and shoving away for later. I hadn't noticed how many questions about what I really wanted, who I was becoming, or how many parts of me I'd been unintentionally putting at the bottom of my "to do list."

Being stripped of distractions—of productivity, purpose, of movement—had made certain truths unavoidable. Things I'd carried quietly for years floated to the surface, patterns I never noticed before—all of it came up.

I'd always imagined what it would be like to simply just exist, to be alone and to relish in that. The thought felt dreamy, it felt free. I imagined it would include a lot of writing, reading, painting, savoring my space, enjoying myself. Never did I expect it would include the themes it had.

And after the recognition came the want to do something. I started adding every book I could find on human behavior, my behavior, to my shopping carts. The more I learned with each book delivered, the more I wanted to work on these things and work on healing while I can, while I have the time.

Every sentence highlighted, every tab I added in a book, started to feel like things were slowly unfreezing. Finding new information and putting it into my practice started to feel like a real accomplishment. Being able to share what I learned with friends only excited me more when I began to realize more of them were calling me to discuss how they should handle certain situations and thought patterns because I had the time to pause and think things through differently. I started to realize that I am getting something most people will never have the chance to do: slow down to learn the important things. I was getting to experience an entirely different side of "constant progress."

I've stopped rushing. I take my time. It's where the idea behind this blog came from. I have only had time to think and I've done plenty of it. If you're reading this and find yourself stuck in your own pause, whether it's because of healing or loss or life simply slowing down—seriously, take the pause. Sometimes the hardest progress cannot be measured or seen. I know there are things I want in my life down the line, where I will never have this type of quiet again, never have this kind of slow-paced environment—when I will miss this warm, low-lit little home of mine. And you know what? I've decided I am so happy to be here.

I'm finding the real question was never How do we keep moving forward in a situation like this? but What does it really mean to move forward when everything inside us feels frozen? And just how "frozen" is it, really?