Part 6: Finding Joy in the Cracks of Chaos
Right now, I am burnt out beyond words.
Not just tired — shut-down exhausted. Functioning on fumes.
Living in a body that forgets how to swallow when it’s overwhelmed.
A mind that slurs and spins.
A heart that feels like it’s been carrying too much for too long.
This is what trauma looks like behind closed doors.
This is my life with Complex PTSD, Bipolar, Adjustment
Disorder, ADHD with autistic tendencies — and the daily weight of invisible illness layered over the physical ones.
Some days, just breathing feels like an act of rebellion.
Just showing up, a miracle.
And yet… joy still finds me.
It sneaks in through the cracks — in Hunter’s cheeky bath-time giggle, in Lachlan’s quiet “Love you, Mum” as he walks by, like he knows I need grounding without needing to be told.
It lives in the tiny rituals:
Making it through the night without aspirating while I sleep
the first sip of tea that doesn’t hurt to swallow. The act of eating food without regurgitation or anti-nausea tablets.
The golden spill of light through my window when the day hasn’t turned on me yet.
The moment before the house wakes up — when everything is still, and I can remember who I am outside of the chaos.
I used to believe joy was waiting for me after the storm
when things finally felt manageable, normal, less like a warzone inside my own skin.
But I’ve learned this:
Joy is not a destination.
It’s a lifeline.
It’s the way we cling to the smallest sparks when the world around us — or within us — feels like it’s on fire.
It’s how we survive when everything else is screaming at us to give up.
So no, I’m not okay right now.
But I’m still here.
Still gathering fragments of light.
Still choosing to notice the way the light filters in —
even when I’m on my knees.
Because joy doesn’t mean everything is fine.
It means something is still beautiful, despite it not being fine.
And today, that’s enough.
