"it's just a feeling." she said. just. like feelings are small things, containable. like i didn't just spend an hour with dr. reeves excavating the bedrock of it all. hands clenched. that tightness again, right behind my eyes this time. and it's not just a feeling, it's the echo of something that happened a long time ago, something that shaped the goddamn continent of who i am, the tilt of the earth, the spin. feel like i'm always trying to catch up, like i’m late, but late to what? oat milk latte cold in my hands now, forgot i even made it. the quiet after the storm, isn’t it? and i’m still breathing. @Maya, you still reading Brene? It's not just the feeling, it's the damn memory of the feeling – the body keeps the score, they say, and mine's got a ledger decades long. I can intellectualize it all day, but that gut-punch recognition? That's the real work, the reminder that the past isn't really past, just dormant until the next trigger, and then, god, it's like living it all over again for a split second.