My Mornings Still Start With Panic, But I’m Talking Back

There’s this weird little moment every morning. It’s a split second right when I am about to open my eyes and expect something awful.

It’s like a hitch.
Like my body is bracing for a mood shift, a slammed door, a punishment I don’t understand.

And for the longest time, that hitch was the only way I knew how to wake up.

I used to think it was normal to start the day terrified. To feel like every mood I had was dangerous—like being in a bad mood would mean the whole day was ruined. Like my emotions were grenades and someone else was holding the pin.

But now? Now the only mood I have to manage is mine.

And even though that little hitch is still there, it’s… shorter. It doesn’t last as long. Some days it’s just a second. Other days it sticks around for a minute or two. But I can breathe through it. I can remind myself that I’m safe. That nobody is going to punish me for taking too long to get dressed. That I can take thirty full minutes to get ready for my walk if I want to—and no one is going to yell at me about it.

I don’t have to rush anymore. That’s the part that gets me.
There’s no fake emergency. No made-up reason to hurry out the door. No more being given eight minutes to get out of the house like I’m being timed for sport.

I get to decide how my morning goes. That’s huge.

But here’s the thing I didn’t expect:
The panic still comes.

It doesn’t just show up in the morning—it pops in at weird times. I’ll be brushing my teeth, or walking through the grocery store, or just trying to answer an email. And suddenly it’s there. That little voice that says, “Something bad is about to happen.”

But lately? I’ve started talking back.

I literally say it out loud.
“You’re safe.”

Sometimes it feels silly. Sometimes I don’t believe it. But I say it anyway.
Because that’s the thing about healing—sometimes you have to say it even when your voice shakes. Even if nobody’s around to hear it. Especially then.

Because words? Words are powerful.

Telling my body I’m safe doesn’t erase everything I’ve been through. It doesn’t magically make me calm. But it reminds me that the present moment is real. That the danger is behind me. That I’ve made it to the part of life where I’m allowed to feel okay.

And maybe one day I’ll wake up without that hitch at all. But for now, I’m learning to greet it, breathe through it, and remind it out loud:
We’re safe now.

And that’s a pretty incredible thing to say.