There are moments in life when everything feels as if it is quietly unraveling at once. Not in a dramatic explosion, but in a slow, unmistakable pull—like threads loosening, one by one, until you can no longer pretend the fabric is still whole. This was one of those moments for me.
As my brother’s situation deepened and he was committed to an institution, the emotional weight of my family’s reality pressed heavily on my heart. At the same time, my own physical body was beginning to signal distress in ways I could no longer ignore. My diet was out of rhythm. My sleep was fractured. Rest—real rest, the kind that brings peace—felt increasingly out of reach. Somewhere beneath the surface, I knew I was running on borrowed energy.
At work, the demands only intensified. Extended care nursing is not gentle work. It requires strength, endurance, and constant emotional presence. Many of the patients I cared for were paralyzed or confined to wheelchairs. Some were stroke survivors, amputees, or living with severe weakness. Others carried the heavy fog of dementia or Alzheimer’s, or struggled with obesity that made even basic movement difficult. Day after day, I gave what I had—often more than I had—lifting, supporting, stabilizing, comforting.
Eventually, my body reached its limit.
I found myself admitted to the hospital, facing a serious kidney crisis. X-rays revealed that one of my kidneys had ballooned to nearly twice the size of the other. Surgery was no longer optional; it was necessary. The operation was extensive, leaving me with a large scar that still curves halfway around my body—a faded but permanent reminder of that turning point. Recovery required time, stillness, and humility. I stepped away from my nursing position, not by choice, but by necessity.
In total, I spent six months healing. Six months of learning how to slow down. Six months of listening instead of pushing. Looking back now, it almost surprises me that I had forgotten this chapter for so long. As I write it today, I realize just how central it was to the unraveling—and rebuilding—of my life. The kidney operation wasn’t a side note. It was the message.
My body, and what I now recognize as my higher self, had been pleading with me to stop overtaxing myself. I hadn’t listened when the signals were subtle. So my body spoke more clearly. My kidneys, organs associated with balance and filtration, made the decision I was unwilling to make: it was time to stop.
After healing, I did what felt instinctively right. I went to Mexico for a much-needed holiday—sun, warmth, breath, and space. It wasn’t an escape so much as a recalibration. A return to myself. A reminder that life could feel lighter, and that health—true health—required honoring limits as much as devotion.
This chapter taught me something fundamental: sometimes the body intervenes not to betray us, but to save us. When we refuse to rest, it will insist. When we ignore the quiet call for balance, it will find a louder voice. And in my case, that voice changed the direction of my life.
Leave a Reply