There are days when the world feels like it’s closing in, and my body becomes a stranger. I find myself bumping into corners I’ve walked past a hundred times, dropping things for no reason, or misjudging a space that usually fits me just fine. I get clumsy—really clumsy. Not in the charming, sitcom-way. In the “I might spill something, trip, or break down in frustration” kind of way.
For years, I assumed this was something hormonal. A leftover echo from when my body used to follow a monthly rhythm. And maybe that’s still true in part—maybe our cells remember even when our cycle has stopped. But the more I notice when this clumsiness hits, the more I realize it’s less about estrogen and more about emotion.
It tends to arrive not on a schedule, but in moments of overwhelm—when I’m frustrated, overextended, or feeling trapped. The kind of trapped that isn’t about a locked door, but about the weight of responsibility, fear, grief, or even just being expected to keep going when everything inside is saying, “Pause. Please.”
When I feel like I can’t breathe or move without consequences, my body starts to malfunction. My coordination unravels. My patience thins. My clothes feel louder. The kitchen feels hostile. Everything becomes harder to maneuver. It’s like my body’s way of waving a red flag, saying, “I can’t do this right now.”
And I don’t think it’s just me. I think a lot of us—especially those who’ve lived with trauma, who’ve pushed ourselves through more than we ever should’ve had to—know what this feels like. The dissociation isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just quiet disconnection. A lack of rhythm. A betrayal of ease.
There’s no easy fix for it. But I’ve learned not to shame myself when it happens. Not to berate my hands for being unsteady or my mind for being foggy. Instead, I notice. I acknowledge. I step away from tasks that feel too sharp or unforgiving. I make softer choices. I drink something warm. I put on clothes that comfort rather than constrain.
Sometimes I write. Like now.
Because this clumsiness? It’s not weakness. It’s not failure. It’s communication. My body, in its flawed and brilliant way, is telling me something. And if I listen—if I let the message come through without judgment—I can move with it instead of against it.
Maybe this is how we heal, in pieces. By noticing what the world doesn’t name. By documenting what doesn’t get explained in diagnoses or labels. By saying, “This happens. And I’m still okay.”
One small moment at a time, I’m learning to meet myself where I am—even if it’s a little wobbly.
And that, too, is a kind of grace.