The Climate I live in

I’ve learned to track the weather inside my own mind the way sailors track tides — not with fear, not with denial, but with a practiced, unsentimental awareness. There are three states my brain moves through, three distinct atmospheric shifts that shape the rhythm of my days. I don’t control them. I don’t summon them. I don’t negotiate with them. I recognize them.

This is not confession. This is not apology. This is documentation.

The ascent, the descent, the middle — these are not moods. They are climates. They are systems. They are the internal seasons I’ve lived inside long enough to name with precision.

I am not the weather. I am the one who knows it.

What follows is the cycle as I’ve lived it — not from inside the storm, but from the vantage point of someone who has charted these patterns enough times to speak about them with clarity.

I know the beginning of the climb before the climb begins. It’s chemical, not emotional — a subtle ignition behind the eyes, a quickening under the ribs, a shift in the internal atmosphere that tells me the sky is about to get loud again.

I watch myself wake before the alarm, not rested but activated. My body moves too quickly, the room seems too bright, gravity loosens its grip. The choreography is familiar: restless hands, unnecessary rearranging, sudden urgency with no clear source.

Thoughts arrive pre-lit, already sprinting ahead of my judgment. They stack themselves into scaffolding I climb without noticing the height. My voice speeds up. My gestures sharpen. My children’s eyes widen in that quiet, knowing way — the recognition of a tempo they didn’t choose.

I start ten things. I finish none. I believe all of them matter.

This state always masquerades as brilliance. It feels like capability, like awakening, like the version of myself I wish I could sustain. But I know better. I know the thin, vibrating edge beneath the shine. I know the cost of mistaking propulsion for progress.

I don’t shame myself for this weather. I don’t dramatize it. I name it.

This is the ascent. This is the overexposure. This is the part where the sky won’t shut up.

I know the descent by its density. The air thickens. The body slows. The world tilts downward in ways subtle to others but unmistakable to me. This isn’t sadness. It’s gravity.

I watch myself wake heavy, moving through the morning like someone carrying invisible weight. The light dulls. The kitchen feels far away. The simplest task becomes a negotiation. My thoughts move underwater — slow, distorted, delayed.

I don’t confuse this with failure anymore. I don’t confuse it with giving up. I know the difference between collapse and conservation.

I see the muted responses, the soft answers, the quiet attempts to stay present for my children even when my mind feels dimmed. I see the scrolling without absorption, the staring at the wall because choosing a different focal point feels like too many steps.

Time stretches. The body slows. The mind dims.

This is not drowning. This is sinking.

Quietly. Steadily. Without spectacle.

And I can name it without shame because I’m not speaking from inside the heaviness — I’m speaking from the vantage point of someone who has resurfaced enough times to understand the terrain.

This is the descent. This is the dimming. This is the part where the ground won’t let go.

I know the return to center by its neutrality — the absence of extremes, the quiet recalibration of a mind that has stopped fighting itself.

I watch myself wake without urgency or resistance. My body moves at a human pace again. The floor feels level. The morning light looks like itself instead of a threat or a revelation.

This is where the real work happens — the rebuilding, the stitching together, the recalibration. People imagine balance is effortless, but I know better. Stability is a discipline. A practice. A series of small, unglamorous choices that accumulate into functionality.

I taste my coffee. I finish tasks. I answer messages without spiraling. I write paragraphs that stay paragraphs.

I feel trustworthy to myself again.

This is not triumph. This is not relief. This is recognition.

The in‑between is where I remember who I am without distortion. It’s where I test the ground for aftershocks. It’s where I breathe without bracing.

This is the middle. This is the reprieve. This is the part where the air levels out.