Untethered…

This past year has been one for the record books—and not in the fun, “remember that amazing vacation?” kind of way. More like the “I deserve hazard pay just for waking up” variety.

My chronic illnesses decided they were tired of being supporting characters and demanded top billing. Since I was 14, I’ve treated pain, fatigue, and feeling generally awful like annoying coworkers: acknowledge them briefly, then get the job done anyway. That strategy worked…until September 2025, when my body staged a full-scale mutiny. Apparently decades of “powering through” finally prompted it to file a formal complaint.

The result? Disability leave from the career I loved.

The plan sounded simple enough: spend a year healing and come back stronger.

Life laughed.

My mom’s health was declining, so I had moved in with her thinking I’d be the helper. I’d cook meals, do laundry, keep the house running, and make life a little easier for her. What I didn’t expect was realizing I wasn’t well enough to take care of both of us.

So I made a choice.

I chose my mom.

I don’t regret that decision for a second. I’d make it again tomorrow. But caregiving isn’t exactly restorative medicine. Somewhere along the way, healing took a back seat to making sure she was safe, comfortable, and loved. By the time she passed, I had spent eight months pouring from a cup that was already half empty.

Today, I’d say I’m functioning at about 60% of the person I used to be—not because the pain is unbearable, but because my stamina has disappeared. A load of laundry, vacuuming the house, walking the dog, or grocery shopping can consume the energy that used to last an entire day. I’ve become someone who has to budget spoons the way other people budget money.

Then came the phone call.

Return to work.

Resign.

Or retire on disability.

For years, disability retirement had been the outcome I was determined to outrun. Surely one more medication, one more infusion, one more stretch of rest would get me back. I kept believing I was just one breakthrough away from becoming the version of myself I remembered.

Instead, I chose retirement.

When I announced it, people congratulated me.

Congratulations?

I wanted to ask if we’d somehow wandered into different conversations.

To me, retirement had always been something you celebrated after decades of work because you wanted to stop—not because your immune system staged a hostile takeover. It felt less like crossing a finish line and more like being told the race was over before I was ready.

The funny thing is, I’m not impulsive about big decisions. If I’m planning a vacation, I research it for months. It took me a year to decide which car to buy. I can say yes to dinner on a whim, but life-altering decisions? Those get spreadsheets, pros-and-cons lists, and enough research to qualify as a graduate thesis.

So believe me when I say I didn’t wake up one morning and casually decide to retire.

Deep down, I never stopped hoping I’d go back.

Then one day I realized something that no spreadsheet could argue with.

If cleaning my house leaves me needing a nap…

If walking my dog feels like a workout…

If grocery shopping requires the kind of recovery time I used to reserve for painting my living room…

Then how could I honestly believe I could return to a career that deserved every ounce of energy, patience, compassion, and focus I had?

That realization wasn’t surrender.

It was acceptance.

I’ve spent most of my life proving how strong I am by pushing through.

Maybe this chapter is about proving strength in a different way—by listening when my body finally says, “Enough.”

And maybe that’s not failure after all.

Maybe it’s wisdom that arrived decades later than I wanted, but exactly when I needed it.

For the first time in my life, I have no one to take care of except myself.

No immediate family depending on me. No job to report to each morning. No schedule dictated by someone else’s needs.

For decades, my life was defined by purpose through responsibility. I was a daughter, a caregiver, a speech therapist, a problem solver. There was always someone who needed me, somewhere I had to be, something that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Now…

I’m untethered.

It’s a strange feeling—less like freedom and more like floating. As if someone quietly cut the rope that had anchored me for so long, and now I’m drifting through unfamiliar waters without a map.

I won’t pretend that it isn’t overwhelming. Most days it feels lonely. Some days it feels frightening. And other days I catch myself wondering who I am when I’m not taking care of everyone else.

But maybe that’s the question I’ve been avoiding all along.

For most of my life, I’ve measured my worth by what I could do for other people. My body eventually called time on that arrangement. It forced me to stop proving my value through exhaustion and start asking what I need.

That’s unfamiliar territory.

Maybe even sacred territory.

I’m hoping that, in time, I’ll find a new anchor—not one tied to obligation or sacrifice, but one rooted in health, peace, curiosity, and joy. One that lets me care for others without losing myself in the process.

For now, I’m learning that being untethered doesn’t necessarily mean being lost.

Sometimes it simply means you’re between shores.

And when I finally drop anchor again, I hope it’s as someone healthier, wiser, and stronger than I’ve ever been—not because life stopped knocking me down, but because I finally learned that I deserve the same care I’ve spent a lifetime giving away.