E's Story: alongside Beginning and Being
E is a 66-year-old career woman, wife, mother, grandmother, and friend.
When illness and anxiety paused everything she once held together, the path forward felt uncertain.
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Sometimes, healing begins not with doing more, but with being met where you are.
This is E’s story of finding support, beginning again, slowing down, and exploring being, one small step at a time.
I was holding everyone together — at work, at home.
Listening, fixing, helping.
Until my body said "enough."
The vertigo hit. My blood pressure soared.
And then it was two months in a dark room.
I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t work.
My days were spent lying in bed or at medical appointments.
I couldn’t eat with my family.
Couldn’t even scroll on my phone.
I was afraid to move — afraid the vertigo would return.
I had a whole care team: doctors, therapists, specialists.
Everyone was doing their part. But something still felt missing.
I was tired of being a patient. I just wanted to be a person.
Then someone came to simply sit with me. She didn’t ask me to sit up. She didn’t need me to explain. She sat with me, in the quiet. No agenda. No checklist. Just presence. We did deep breathing. I told her I missed work. I missed who I used to be.
And somehow, for the first time in a while, that felt okay to say out loud.
She never told me what to do.
Instead, she offered options — a stretch or a silly dance. Something light. Something doable.
She asked me to decide when to move, when to pause.
It wasn’t about pushing — it was about listening.
To my body. To my limits. To myself.
So we danced. I sang. I laughed. I remembered: I can still do things.
I felt like I had a say.
I wrote out a plan to return to work.
But the more real it became, the more anxious I felt.
I chose to wait. To adjust my medications first.
She reminded me: waiting is still moving.
One morning, I texted her: “Let’s go to church.”
She drove me there, and we prayed.
Then I said: “I want to try going to the office.”
We sat in the carpark. I nearly backed out.
“I have butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I should leave.”
She said: “We can leave if you want to. You’ve already done a lot. You’ve been so brave.”
But I wanted to go in. I asked her to come with me.
I stayed twenty minutes. My colleagues were so happy to see me.
When I left, I felt… proud.
I went back to work — on my own — again and again.
I wrote down questions for my psychiatrist.
Made my case for not increasing the dose.
We even talked about gradually weaning off.
I started planning my own days. I drove myself to the office.
I stayed through the whole company dinner.
I laughed with my grandchildren — even when they screamed.
Life is full again — work, dinners, family.
But I still meet her.
Not to plan or fix.
Just to pause. To breathe.
To remember what I’ve been through.
And who I’m becoming.
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First day back at the office!
With her, I didn’t have to pretend I was okay.
I could speak freely, without holding back, without feeling like a burden.
She helped me take the first step — and that step opened everything else.
Don’t underestimate what that kind of presence can do.
Illustrations by @charmnooodles