The Curtains Came First

Taking time off work wasn’t a simple decision for me. It felt like failure. Like I was walking away from everything I’d worked so hard to hold together. For years, I defined myself by how much I could carry — by the work I did, the people I supported, the way I kept going no matter what. So when I finally stepped back, when my body and my nervous system demanded a full stop, I thought I’d feel relief.

But instead, everything went quiet. And not the peaceful kind of quiet.

This was the kind of stillness that swallowed me. The kind where the air felt heavy and the days blurred together. I couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t shower. I didn’t brush my teeth. I stopped answering messages from friends. I avoided calls from my family. I disconnected from everything — including myself.

I spent hours doom-scrolling. I watched TV on a loop just to fill the silence. I didn’t know how to be with myself without the doing. And at some point in that darkness, I caught my own reflection in the window and thought, This can’t be it. This isn’t who I am. 

It wasn’t a burst of motivation. It wasn’t a comeback moment. It was a quiet, almost inaudible question: Is there another way? 

And that question — that tiny flicker of curiosity — was enough to shift something.

I started looking at photos of nature on Instagram. Pictures of the ocean. Trees. Sunlight catching on water. I wasn’t ready to go outside, but something about those images felt like medicine. A reminder of what once made me feel alive.

And then one morning… I opened the curtains.

Not fully. Not dramatically. Just enough to let a bit of light in.

That small act was the first real change. The first time I chose to let something in, instead of keeping everything out.

The curtains came first.

A few days later, I moved to the window. I stood there in silence, letting the light hit my face. And then — slowly — I opened it. Let the air brush my skin. It felt like something inside me was remembering.

Wrapped in the same blanket I’d been living in, I made my way downstairs and stood at the patio door. I held a cup of tea in my hands and watched the morning roll in. And one day — carefully, gently — I opened the door. I stepped outside. One foot, then the other.

It wasn’t about getting “back to normal.” I didn’t even know what normal meant anymore. But that step felt real. And it felt like mine.

Stu was there through all of it. He brought me food when I couldn’t cook for myself. He reminded me to wash, to breathe, to sit up. He didn’t fix anything — and I didn’t need him to. What he gave me was presence. Gentle, loving presence when I had none left for myself. And while I don’t want this part of the story to be about him, I can’t tell the truth of it without saying: I wouldn’t have made it through that season without him quietly loving me through it.

Healing didn’t come in a flash. It came in whispers.

Through open curtains.

Warm tea.

Soft blankets.

And the courage to take one small step. Then another. Then another.

There was no map. Just a question: What’s one small thing I can do today that feels kind? 

Sometimes the answer was sitting in the sun for two minutes. Sometimes it was taking a full breath. Sometimes it was letting myself cry without trying to fix it.

And little by little, the light started to come back. Not all at once. But enough to notice.

I didn’t return to the person I was before. I wouldn’t want to. What I found instead was something quieter, more rooted, more true. A version of me who could sit in stillness without fear. Who could stand at the threshold of a new day and say, Maybe I’m ready. 

That’s the part I want to offer you.

The reminder that you don’t need to leap.

You don’t need to have it all figured out.

You just need one tiny, honest step toward yourself.

I’ve left a light on for you. 

Shannan