Dear Me,
Tonight, I’m writing this from the sofa. Wrapped in a blanket, hair a mess, half-drunk tea somewhere nearby. My body feels like it’s been through a war waged entirely in coughs and sneezes. I’ve been ill for what feels like an eternity now, and it’s made me feel ancient. Not just tired, but really, really old.
It’s strange how quickly a cold can unravel the illusion of youth. One minute you’re powering through the day like a semi-functional adult, the next you’re groaning as you bend down to pick something up, wondering who you pissed off in life so much that they’ve been playing with your voodoo doll again.
However, there is something quietly humbling about being forced to stop though, right? Illness doesn’t ask for permission (although I wish it would give me a heads-up). It just presses pause whenever it feels like it. And when it does, you start to notice things: how much noise you carry in your head, how little rest you actually allow yourself, how often you confuse productivity with worth.
And then the thought creeps in: is it the voodoo doll, or is it actually me? Maybe this is my body’s way of saying, “Sit down before I make you.”
So, to the version of me who feels old tonight… Sit down.
You don’t owe the world anything right now. Let it spin without you. Crawl into bed, sink into the pillows, breathe. You’ve earned this respite.
And if tomorrow you still feel a little broken, that’s okay.
Go easy on you.
With love always,
Me 🖤
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