This morning, something happened at Superstore that I didn’t expect.

I wasn’t disconnected or numbed out or floating three feet above my body.

And I don’t mean that in a poetic way. I mean—I was in my body. Present. Awake. Alive.

I walked through the doors with a cart that didn’t feel too heavy, with legs that didn’t ache, with a mind that wasn’t spinning a thousand thoughts. My body felt light. My steps felt grounded. Like a bird whose wings were no longer wrapped in gauze. I could feel the rhythm of my feet against the floor. The slight push of the cart. The temperature of the store air as it met my skin.

And then I walked past the seafood section.And something so ordinary happened, it stunned me:

I saw a fresh fish on display, and it caught my attention.

Not in an “I should probably buy something healthy” kind of way.Not in a “Do we even need fish?” mental loop.But in a pull. A moment of aliveness.

I wanted to buy that fish.I wanted to cook it. For me. For my boys.I could taste it before even touching it—lemon, garlic, heat, the crisp on the outside, the softness inside.

That desire? That connection to a piece of food, a moment in time, a flicker of care?

Because not long ago—when I was deep in burnout, working at a toxic job, barely holding my body together—going to Superstore felt like an assault.Everything was too bright, too loud, too much.I’d walk through the aisles and see food but not register it. I couldn’t make decisions. Couldn’t feel pleasure. Couldn’t think beyond “what do we need to survive?”

Even standing in front of a piece of fish would feel like a blur. Like looking through water. Like nothing could land.

But today, something landed.

Today, I didn’t just function—I felt.Desire. Care. Attention. Nourishment.

Not from a number on a scale.Not from a productivity hack.But from the return of the most human thing in the world:The desire to care.

I looked at that fish, and it looked back at me.And I thought—this is it. This is the moment. This is what it means to be back.

📊 For the first time in years, I got more than 2 hours of deep sleep last night. And for a full week now, my Oura resilience score has stayed exceptional. This has never happened before. This is what happens when your nervous system finally stops bracing. When your body feels safe enough to let go. When healing isn’t something you chase—it’s something you become.

—holding exceptional for the first time in my life.

Back in the sacred, ordinary rhythm of being a woman who feels the world again.