I can’t remember what started first, the heart palpitations or the nightmares, or exactly when it all began. I thought it was grief. I thought it was the anxiety I’d been born with, or a physical expression of the emotional turmoil I’d been thrown into.
Last year was the worst year of my life, because it’s been a condensed, amplified version of everything that has defined previous tough times — worsening chronic illness, losing loved ones and experiencing setbacks so constant that it’s almost comedic. I write books about those very things, and I think the universe constructed this year to make sure that I never run out of inspiration.
I could explain it month by month, how I had gallbladder surgery in January 2025, cared for my grandmother through her two surgeries in February, and had another procedure myself in March. Then, that same grandmother went on hospice in April and passed away in May.
By late May, I went to see my trusted primary care provider, and I told her I thought I needed my anxiety medication adjusted. She listened, and she agreed, but she told me she never likes to blame physical symptoms on anxiety. Looking back, her philosophy of care was life-changing.
So, I walked out of there with a heart monitor that I wore for three weeks. It showed that my heart rate got up to 180 while I sat watching a local production of “Waitress,” singing my actual heart out in flagrant violation of theater etiquette.
