She is unraveling. Slowly, like a thread pulled too hard, too long, until what was once seamless begins to fray. The weight of exhaustion presses into her bones, pools beneath her eyes, lingers in the hollow space between her ribs. She moves through the world like a ghost of herself, haunted by the person she used to be—before the storm, before the breaking.
Once, she stood tall. Confident, certain. Now, she pulls at the edges of her sleeves, shrinks into corners, hopes no one notices the cracks in her voice, the tremor in her hands. She used to know the path forward, but now every road is fogged, every step uncertain. The reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar—too many eyes, too many versions of herself staring back, asking questions she cannot answer.
So she hides. She tucks herself into shadows, into quiet places where no one will see how lost she has become. She tells herself she is only waiting, only resting, only giving herself time to gather what’s left. But the truth is, she does not know how to put herself back together. She does not know if she can.
And yet—she keeps going. Not because she is strong, not because she is ready, but because something deep inside her refuses to stop. Even as she unravels, she walks forward, thread by thread, hoping that somewhere along the way, she will remember how to weave herself whole again.
Shaping the Crazy 