From the Pages: The Unraveling

After Costa Rica, I felt clear for the first time in months.
Hopeful. Energized. Awake.

I didn’t know exactly what I was going to build, but I knew I wanted to be an entrepreneur. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself again—excited. Ready.

I thought I’d found my way.
I thought the hardest part was behind me.

Clarity feels like the end of the storm—
but for me, it was the eye of it.

There’s a certain grief that comes with realizing clarity isn’t permanent.
I came home full of hope—only to unravel in ways I never saw coming.

But integration is rarely gentle when you ignore its call.

Within days, I packed up for a family trip. Christmas in Colorado with my mom, my kids, and my ex.
The retreat had warned me: ease back in slowly. Protect your energy. Tend to your spirit.
I did the opposite.

I drank too much, ate like shit, and ignored every signal to slow down.
My rhythm was off. My spirit was out of sync.
By the time I got home, I was drained—and New Year’s Eve was waiting.

I went out that night—telling myself I was just blowing off steam. Just one night of fun.
But something in me was already starting to unravel.

When I finally laid down, I couldn’t sleep.
The only thing I could do was cry—tears without a clear reason, just an ache I couldn’t name.

I didn’t want to sit with the ache, so I reached for whatever would quiet it—even when I knew it would only lead me further from myself.
I wasn’t ready to face it.
I just wanted the noise to stop.

It didn’t stop with one night.
What started as a celebration spiraled into days of disconnect.
I lost track of time—days blurred into each other, and so did I.

By the fifth day, I could barely speak.
My thoughts were thick with fog, my body numb.
Pins and needles danced across my skin—and inside, I was slipping further away.

I called my best friend and finally said what I hadn’t been able to admit out loud:
“I need help.”

She didn’t hesitate.
One friend came.
Then another.
And another.

They cleared the space I couldn’t—so I could begin again.
No judgment.
Just presence.
Just love.

After a few days, I checked into a behavioral health center to begin stabilizing and clearing my system—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
Once I was strong enough, I was placed in a long-term recovery house.

I walked through the doors still raw. Fragile. Disoriented.
I didn’t know what would come next—but finally, I wasn’t running.

So I sat with the stillness.
And eventually, I reached for the one thing that had always helped me find my way back.

That’s where I picked up the pen again.

At first, it was survival.

A way to untangle the noise in my head.
To quiet the static long enough to breathe.

But over time, journaling became more than that.

It became a lifeline.
A soft landing place for everything I was holding.
Grief. Anger. Hope. Confusion.

There was no pressure to perform or explain.
No need to make it sound wise or beautiful.

Just the page.
Just the pen.
Just me.

I was exhausted, but awake.
Still shaken, but starting to feel a little more clear.

I didn’t have a plan—just the intention to stay open.
To stay soft.
To stay.

I knew I couldn’t keep numbing…
but feeling it all still felt impossible.

The days that followed were a blur—quiet, heavy, sore.

“It’s 8:12 AM and I was just woken up by staff doing their morning rounds... I haven’t journaled in an entire month.”

That’s what I wrote on my first morning there—still trying to find my footing.

“I think I’ll try it this morning,” I added, referring to the five-step routine they’d given me.

Even then, I was searching for a rhythm—any rhythm.
A way back to myself—one small decision at a time.

“This is probably the third or fourth time I’ve woken up this morning. I’m thinking of journaling each time I wake up…”

I had gone from chaos to stillness—
and the stillness was loud.

I didn’t have anything profound to say.
Just scattered thoughts and a shaky pen.

But I showed up anyway—
and somehow, that was enough to stir something awake.

“I’ve spent so long pretending I’m okay that I forgot how to be anything else.”

Journaling became a thread I could follow through the fog.
A quiet tether to myself when everything else felt uncertain.

Some days, all I could do was name what I was feeling:

“I’ve been struggling the past few days with unsureness…”

Other days, I leaned into the stillness:

“I’m just going to chill in my cocoon today.”
“During my depressive episodes, I feel a heaviness in my body. I cocoon in my bed, and when I try to get up, that weight consumes me and forces me back down.”

The more I returned to the page, the more I returned to myself.
Slowly. Softly. On my own terms.

But healing wasn’t linear.

Some days I felt clear. Grounded.
Other days, I barely made it out of bed.

There were mornings I woke with hope in my chest—
and others where anxiety met me at the door.

“Anxiety is high today & wearing me out already.”

Each page reminded me:
I don’t need to have it all figured out to keep going.

And somewhere between the scribbles and silence,
I started to find myself again.

Not the version I’d been trying to hold together—
but the one that had been waiting underneath all along.

“I realize now that I’m in the right place. I’ve just allowed my internal self-talk to confuse me.”

Looking back on these pages, I can see how fragile that version of me was—and how brave.
She didn’t have a map, but she kept showing up.

Every shaky line was guiding me somewhere—
not back to who I was, but toward something new.
A version of myself I hadn’t yet met, but had been longing to become.

Piece by piece, the numbness began to thaw.

The next entry answers a question I’ve been asked more times than I can count:
“What happened in Costa Rica?”

In the next post, I’ll finally go there—
into the magic, the medicine, the mystery,
and the truth of the transformation ayahuasca set in motion.

Thank you for meeting me here.
I’ll see you on the next page.

– Joselyn

Pause + Reflect

What’s one decision you’ve been circling—because you know it will stretch you, challenge you, or change you?
Can you take a step toward it anyway?

Is there a part of you that’s been whispering, “something has to change”?
What would it look like to ask for the help you need—before reaching your breaking point?

What if staying the same is costing you more than the risk of letting go?