Some days, I wish people could understand how much energy it takes just to stay steady. How much effort it takes to exist when the world won’t stop shifting. Not because I’m fragile. Not because I’m indecisive. But because I experience the world through a nervous system that doesn’t let anything go unnoticed. A flicker of light, a change in tone, a break in routine; it hits me harder than most would ever realize.

Lately, I’ve been hesitating, about continuing, about enrolling again. It’s not that I’ve stopped wanting it. It’s just… everything changed. And I keep psychoanalyzing myself, wondering: Have I gotten weaker? Is my dream fading? Or was I only ever chasing it to prove something, until I finally got tired of needing to?

Few people know but I have Sensory Processing Disorder. That means patterns and structure aren’t just preferences for me, they’re anchors. They help me feel safe in a world that often feels unpredictable and overwhelming. My senses are hypersensitive: certain frequencies make me physically ill, strong scents can trigger discomfort or nausea, and I notice even the slightest changes in textures, in food, in sounds… When things are in their place like routines, familiar environments, expected outcomes, I feel grounded. Regulated. Safe. And when those patterns are broken whether by sudden changes, overwhelming noise, shifting schedules, or emotional earthquakes, my entire foundation shakes.

Even small disruptions, yes, a changed meeting time, a crowded space, the wrong fabric against my skin can rattle my entire system in ways that are hard to explain but deeply felt. This isn’t about being picky or dramatic, it’s simply how I’m wired. And when the disruptions are bigger, like grief or trauma, the impact magnifies. It becomes hard to think clearly, to function normally, to do the simplest tasks without feeling internally scrambled.

For me, break in pattern is not just inconvenience or discomfort. It’s disorientation. My brain doesn’t easily adapt in the moment. It takes a lot of mental work for me to just “go with the flow.” I freeze, I scramble, I spiral, because the flow can feel like a flood.

I’ve always been fixated on organizing, planning, anticipating, not as a quirk, but as a form of self-preservation. I need to see the whole picture before I move. I’ve learned that from experience, and I’ve reinforced it through the wisdom I found in The Art of War, that battles are not won by brute force alone, but by strategy, foresight, and patience. That planning is a form of strength, not hesitation.

So when my world spins out of order, it’s not easy to just “bounce back.” Although I was able to do so, many times, I need time to recalibrate, to redraw the map, to rebuild the structure that helps me move through life with purpose and clarity and direction.

Truth be told, I never gave myself the grace to fully process this disorder.I didn’t want to see it as a flaw and so I tried to turn it into a strength. I kept pushing through, out of habit, out of pressure, out of the need to be dependable. I’ve always tried, quietly, consistently, especially for others. Even when I’m unraveling inside, even when the world around me feels unfamiliar and offbeat, I find a way to appear steady. Because that’s what I’ve learned to do: to endure in silence, to carry the weight without complaint, to look fine even when I’m not.

But now I see it. It’s catching up to me. And it’s taking its toll…

This past season unraveled everything not just emotionally, but physically, mentally, and sensorially. Grief and disruption don’t follow calendars. They don’t wait for exams, deadlines, or daily routines. I couldn’t take the exam when I was supposed to. I had to adjust. And for someone wired like me, that shift wasn’t just inconvenient, it was disorienting.

Disruption breaks the fragile systems I’ve carefully built to survive. And when those systems collapse, I’m left trying to hold everything together with hands already full. Because when your life depends on delicate structures just to stay functional, even the smallest change can feel like an avalanche.

I’ve tried to reason with myself. Told myself it’s just a delay, just a change. But my body knows better. It registers the shift before I can explain it. And suddenly, I’m not just behind on a date, I’m untethered, unraveling, trying to grasp for something steady in a world that no longer feels predictable.

I know some people see hesitation and assume doubt. But this isn’t about not knowing what I want. I still believe in what I started. I still see the version of me who can finish it. This is about capacity. About knowing when continuing forward means pushing myself past a breaking point instead of growing.

And maybe that’s where real self-trust begins. Not in constantly pushing through, but in knowing when to pause. When to honor the weight of everything I’ve carried. When to step back, not because I’ve given up, but because I’m learning to return to myself.

My patterns were broken. My rhythm collapsed. But I’m still here, quiet, recalibrating, and reminding myself that healing isn’t weakness.

It’s preparation.

For so long, I’ve been recalibrating for others, stretching myself thin to meet expectations, to stay dependable, to hold everything together.

But not this time.

This time, I’m doing it for me.

I’ve been called “too sensitive” my whole life. But what people don’t see is how hard I work just to show up, to stay present, to keep going when my mind is processing everything at once.

But this brain, this sensitive, pattern-loving, detail-noticing brain, it’s also my gift. It helps me see what others overlook. It catches the unspoken, the subtle, the broken thread in the fabric. It makes me intuitive. Perceptive. Sharp.

Still, right now, I don’t need to prove I’m strong. I need to give myself permission to pause. To step back. To grieve. To rebuild my rhythms on my own terms.

I know for this isn’t giving up. It’s listening. It’s honoring the way I’m wired, the pain I’m carrying, and the quiet courage it takes to say:

“Not now, but maybe, when I’m ready, I will return.”

And I will pray for it.

One of my professors in Lawschool once told me, “Becoming a lawyer is based on your phasing. It is never a race.”

Noted on this, Atty. Because right now, I’m learning that growth isn’t always linear, and strength doesn’t always look like endurance. Sometimes, it looks like stepping back, not to quit, but to breathe. To regain clarity and recalibrate my purpose. To see the bigger the picture. To heal. And eventually, to return on my own terms.

Love,

Ana 💋