A look inside

Picture this.

You’re having a good day — a really good day.

You come home, maybe you’re laughing, maybe you’re just soaking in the quiet, and then out of nowhere…

It hits.

First, a cold sweat. Then the kind of pain that steals your breath.

It shoots up your back, wraps around your stomach, and drags itself down your legs like it’s trying to take you with it.

Your body folds in on itself — fetal position — because standing isn’t an option. Breathing feels like a chore. You hope it passes soon.

It’s not the first time.

And in the pit of your gut, you know it won’t be the last.

The sharp edges of the pain begin to dull, and you think maybe this is it, maybe I can move now. You try to get up.

Maybe you moved too soon. Maybe it was inevitable.

But it comes back — this time, with a vengeance.

You’re whisper-screaming for help because you have to make it to the bathroom. Nausea is rising fast.

Your vision clouds, the edges go blurry, and your body is shaking so hard you barely recognize it as yours.

You make it to the bathroom — just in time — and then… everything goes white.

Then black.

When you open your eyes again, you’re on the floor. Covered in mess. Your head is pounding — you hit it on the way down. Twice.

You’re seconds away from calling an ambulance.

You can’t move. You are drowning under the weight of fear.

This is not the kind of pain you can grit your teeth through. This is the kind of pain that makes you question everything.

Fortunately, I wasn’t alone.

Smythe got me up, ran a warm bath, poured in epsom salts. And in a flash of quick thinking — 200mg of CBD, courtesy of a Vlasic bath bomb.

It took about ten minutes for the pain to shift from unbearable to… manageable. I sat there in the tub, tears mixing with bath water, feeling small, exposed, embarrassed.

And if I’m honest — in that moment — I wished I didn’t exist at all.

This is what an ovarian cyst rupturing can look like.

The next day, as if my body decided one wasn’t enough, more cysts burst.

I spent the entire day flat, riding waves of radiating pain and exhaustion. My survival strategy? A safeBet FECO/CBN blend, placed in my belly button. It didn’t kick in right away, but eventually, my body gave me the mercy of sleep.

Today, I woke up sore. Drained.

But I’m not in that immense pain anymore. And right now… that’s enough.

The Aftermath

When something like this happens, it’s not just the physical pain that lingers.

It’s the hyper-awareness that your body can betray you at any moment.

It’s the quiet fear that creeps in when you feel the faintest twinge.

It’s the way you find yourself moving slower, holding your breath in the mirror, listening for signs from the inside out.

There’s a certain intimacy to surviving pain like this.

You become intimately familiar with your limits, your fragility, and your need for care. You learn to let people see you at your most unfiltered and unguarded, because you have no choice.

And somehow, despite the fear and embarrassment, you also feel a strange gratitude.

Grateful for a body that, despite everything, is still trying to heal you.

Grateful for the hands that held you steady when the world went white.

Grateful for another morning, even if you wake up sore.

Because when your body drags you to the edge of yourself and back… every breath after feels like proof that you’re still here.