I used to feel like I was already over the edge.
Not standing near it. Not testing it. Over it.
There were stretches where it felt like I was constantly catching myself mid-fall. Managing medications. Managing schedules. Managing finances. And at the same time, bracing for volatility. Wondering what I was walking into at the end of the day — whether it would be a call from school, a number on a bill, or a silence that meant something had already shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic in the moment. It was just normal. That’s what makes it harder to recognize in hindsight. I was in freefall and calling it responsibility.
My son still had seizures. My goddaughter still struggled. Work still pressed. But layered over all of it was instability. The kind that keeps your nervous system activated even when nothing specific is happening. The kind that makes you feel like collapse is always a few inches away.
I hate heights.
If I look over the side of a building, my body reacts before my mind does. There’s a queasy suspension. A sense that gravity is closer than it should be. That feeling used to live in my chest most days. Not because catastrophe was constant, but because it was always possible.
The edge is still there.
My son still has seizures. A cold still increases risk. My goddaughter is still medically fragile. Work is still work. The debt is still heavy.
But I’m not over it anymore.
I’m a step or two back.
I can see the drop. I don’t like it. I don’t pretend it isn’t there. But I’m standing on solid ground. The weight I’m carrying feels steadier. It doesn’t swing the way it used to.
That’s the difference.
The risk hasn’t vanished. The responsibility hasn’t lessened. The uncertainty hasn’t resolved.
What’s changed is the footing.
I’m not bracing for the next shove. I’m not scanning every moment for signs of collapse. I’m not ending each day with the sense that I barely made it through.
I’m standing.
Close enough to respect the edge. Far enough back to move deliberately.
The edge isn’t gone.
But I’m not falling anymore.