Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

Sometimes I wonder how much of this illness is my body’s way of screaming what my voice no longer had the strength to say.

That I’ve been holding too much for too long.

That surviving is not the same as living.

That healing cannot happen in a war zone.

I think—no, I know—that once I’m safe again, something in me will shift. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not in the dramatic way movies make it look. But gently. Quietly. Like spring breaking through frost.

My symptoms didn’t come back out of nowhere. They came back when the ground beneath me turned cold again. When I lost the soft place to land. When the fight returned—not just in my nervous system, but in my home.

But one day soon, I will wake up in a space that doesn’t steal my breath. A space that doesn’t hold its own weight of dread. I’ll make tea in my own kitchen. I’ll sit with silence that doesn’t hurt. I’ll rest—not just sleep, but rest—without fear of what waits on the other side.

And when that day comes, I don’t just hope I’ll feel better.

I believe I will.

Because maybe my body isn’t broken.

Maybe it’s just waiting for the moment it’s safe enough to return to me.