The Winter Inside Her
At first, she thought she was doing well.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t breaking down.
She wasn’t falling apart in public.
She was functioning.
She was answering messages, showing up, and getting through the day.
From the outside, she looked steady.
But inside… she felt nothing.
Not sadness.
Not joy.
Not even anger.
Just a quiet blankness—like someone had turned the volume down on her entire emotional world.
And maybe, in some strange way, the numbness felt safer than feeling too much.
She began noticing it in small moments.
Someone shared good news… and she smiled, but it didn’t reach her.
A beautiful sunset appeared… and she saw it, but she didn’t feel it.
A song she once loved played softly… and it passed through her like wind through an empty room.
And she started wondering:
“What’s wrong with me?”
But the deeper question—the one she didn’t want to ask—was this:
“What if I never feel like myself again?”
One day, she stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.
Not with judgment.
With longing.
She looked into her own eyes and realized:
She was here…
…but she wasn’t really *here.*
Her body was present, but her spirit felt far away, as if it had wandered off to protect her.
And something inside her whispered:
[whisper] “I miss me.”
But fear rose quickly.
Because numbness had become her armor.
It had carried her through grief.
Through exhaustion.
Through the constant habit of overgiving.
If she let herself feel again … what would come rushing in?
Would she fall apart?
Would she drown in everything she had been holding back?
So she stayed busy.
She stayed capable.
She stayed numb.
Until one quiet evening, a softer voice appeared inside her.
Not harsh.
Not demanding.
Just gentle.
It whispered:
“Numbness is not failure. It is protection.”
And for the first time in a long time, she stopped fighting herself.
That night, she sat in silence and placed a hand over her heart.
She didn’t try to fix anything.
She didn’t try to force a breakthrough.
She simply whispered:
“I’m here.”
At first… nothing happened.
But she stayed.
She breathed.
And then—barely noticeable, like the first drop of rain—
a sensation rose.
Not a full emotion.
Just a tremble.
A small ache.
A tiny crack in the ice.
And she realized: The feeling wasn’t gone.
It was just frozen.
In the days that followed, she stopped demanding happiness.
Instead, she practiced presence.
She drank her tea slowly.
She took short walks without her phone.
She sat by a window and let sunlight touch her skin.
Not to force joy…
but to create safety.
And slowly, the world began to return.
Not in fireworks.
In whispers.
A song that stirred her.
A memory that brought tears.
A moment of laughter that surprised her.
And when she cried for the first time in a long time, she didn’t panic.
She simply whispered:
“Oh… there you are.”
She began to understand:
She wasn’t broken.
She was healing.
And her numbness wasn’t her enemy.
It was her guardian.
It had protected her until she was ready to come back.
And now … she was returning.
Softly.
Sacredly.
One breath at a time.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t breaking down.
She wasn’t falling apart in public.
She was functioning.
She was answering messages, showing up, and getting through the day.
From the outside, she looked steady.
But inside… she felt nothing.
Not sadness.
Not joy.
Not even anger.
Just a quiet blankness—like someone had turned the volume down on her entire emotional world.
And maybe, in some strange way, the numbness felt safer than feeling too much.
She began noticing it in small moments.
Someone shared good news… and she smiled, but it didn’t reach her.
A beautiful sunset appeared… and she saw it, but she didn’t feel it.
A song she once loved played softly… and it passed through her like wind through an empty room.
And she started wondering:
“What’s wrong with me?”
But the deeper question—the one she didn’t want to ask—was this:
“What if I never feel like myself again?”
One day, she stood in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.
Not with judgment.
With longing.
She looked into her own eyes and realized:
She was here…
…but she wasn’t really *here.*
Her body was present, but her spirit felt far away, as if it had wandered off to protect her.
And something inside her whispered:
[whisper] “I miss me.”
But fear rose quickly.
Because numbness had become her armor.
It had carried her through grief.
Through exhaustion.
Through the constant habit of overgiving.
If she let herself feel again … what would come rushing in?
Would she fall apart?
Would she drown in everything she had been holding back?
So she stayed busy.
She stayed capable.
She stayed numb.
Until one quiet evening, a softer voice appeared inside her.
Not harsh.
Not demanding.
Just gentle.
It whispered:
“Numbness is not failure. It is protection.”
And for the first time in a long time, she stopped fighting herself.
That night, she sat in silence and placed a hand over her heart.
She didn’t try to fix anything.
She didn’t try to force a breakthrough.
She simply whispered:
“I’m here.”
At first… nothing happened.
But she stayed.
She breathed.
And then—barely noticeable, like the first drop of rain—
a sensation rose.
Not a full emotion.
Just a tremble.
A small ache.
A tiny crack in the ice.
And she realized: The feeling wasn’t gone.
It was just frozen.
In the days that followed, she stopped demanding happiness.
Instead, she practiced presence.
She drank her tea slowly.
She took short walks without her phone.
She sat by a window and let sunlight touch her skin.
Not to force joy…
but to create safety.
And slowly, the world began to return.
Not in fireworks.
In whispers.
A song that stirred her.
A memory that brought tears.
A moment of laughter that surprised her.
And when she cried for the first time in a long time, she didn’t panic.
She simply whispered:
“Oh… there you are.”
She began to understand:
She wasn’t broken.
She was healing.
And her numbness wasn’t her enemy.
It was her guardian.
It had protected her until she was ready to come back.
And now … she was returning.
Softly.
Sacredly.
One breath at a time.
If you’ve been feeling numb, please know this: you are not broken. You are protecting your heart. When you’re ready, come be supported inside the Self-Care Café Membership Experience at www.selfcarecafe.com. You don’t have to thaw alone.
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