You feel off, but nothing around you has changed
You wake up in the same bed, in the same house, with the same routine.
But something inside feels unfamiliar.
The morning light feels duller, though the sun hasn’t changed.
You go through the motions—coffee, clothes, commute.
Still, it feels like you’re watching someone else live your life.
It’s not dramatic. It’s just distant.
Some days, your thoughts feel louder than usual
They’re not always negative.
They’re just constant.
They echo, they repeat, they push you forward and hold you back.
You overthink simple things—how you said hello, how someone looked away.
It feels like your mind forgot how to be quiet.
You wish for silence that doesn’t feel empty.
Sleep doesn’t repair you the way it used to
You sleep eight hours, maybe more.
But still wake up like you ran all night.
Your body feels heavy, but your brain runs ahead of itself.
Dreams blur into waking thoughts.
You lie there wondering if rest is something you’ll feel again.
You get up anyway.
Tears come suddenly, without a clear reason
It could be a memory, or nothing at all.
You cry in the car.
In the bathroom.
At your desk.
And sometimes you hide it, sometimes you don’t.
Not for attention—just because you don’t know what else to do with it.
Your patience shortens, even when you know it shouldn’t
You hear yourself snapping before you even feel angry.
Then comes the guilt.
Apologies.
You say, “I’m just tired,” but that’s not all of it.
It’s not about the moment.
It’s about the build-up no one sees.
Hormones shift quietly, but the weight they carry is loud
No one sends a warning.
But your body knows something’s shifting.
You feel it in the mirror.
In your voice.
In how slowly joy returns.
You want to explain, but you’re still figuring it out yourself.
Anxiety appears without warning, without cause
You’re safe.
Nothing’s wrong.
But your chest tightens, your breath shortens, your hands tremble.
It doesn’t feel rational.
That’s what makes it worse.
You talk yourself down.
Sometimes it works.
Sadness doesn’t always feel dramatic—it just feels daily
It’s not falling apart.
It’s falling flat.
You still show up, still smile, still answer emails.
But everything behind it feels muted.
You wonder how long you can fake being okay.
Sometimes you even fool yourself.
Your confidence flickers, without anyone saying a word
You doubt things you used to feel sure of.
Your work.
Your relationships.
Your body.
A look from someone becomes a story in your head.
One you believe too easily.
Concentration fades, even during the things you enjoy
Books take longer.
Movies blur.
Conversations drift.
You ask questions, then forget the answers.
It feels like your brain is buffering.
But there’s no restart button.
Your body feels foreign, and that affects your mind
Your clothes fit differently.
Your skin reacts to nothing.
You stare at the mirror longer than usual.
You’re not looking for beauty—just recognition.
Even your smile feels practiced.
You start avoiding yourself.
You try to explain, but it sounds too small to matter
You say, “I’m fine,” but you aren’t.
You say, “I’m just tired,” but it’s deeper.
When you do speak, you feel like you’re overreacting.
So you say less.
Then nothing.
Then hope someone notices anyway.
Doctors treat symptoms, but not always the cause
They ask about sleep, not hormones.
They suggest therapy, not blood tests.
You take what’s offered.
But you leave with the same questions.
You Google more than you should.
And understand less than you hoped.
You learn to observe your cycle not just by dates, but by moods
You start noticing patterns.
Sadness three days before bleeding.
Anger two days after.
Your calendar becomes a diary of feelings.
You highlight the highs.
Circle the lows.
It doesn’t fix anything, but it explains something.
Hormones don’t make you weak—they make you human
Your body isn’t malfunctioning.
It’s responding.
To change, to time, to imbalance.
It doesn’t ask permission before shifting.
You feel like you’re failing, but really—you’re adapting.
Even on the days you can’t tell.