My body went through the repetitive motions: stir, shake the salt, sprinkle cheese, slice the butter.
One of my daughters clung to my leg as she plopped down on my foot and wrapped her arms around it tightly. For a second, I felt her weight against me, tethering me to the ground.
Stir. Scoop. Smile.
The thing was, I knew I was there, in physical form, standing next to the stovetop scrambling eggs and stirring oatmeal.
But the rest of me wasn’t there. My mind, my heart—the parts of me that felt most alive—had disappeared the night I found out the truth of what was happening in my marriage. It was as though they all floated away the minute my husband confirmed my fears and suspicions.
At night, when everyone was asleep, I’d get out of bed and stumble down the unfamiliar hallway of our new home. Moving boxes still lined the walls, stacked, traces of packing paper crumbled in piles on the living room floor.
I’d lie on the sofa, and stare at their darkened outlines, and wonder if it was even worth unpacking. Would we even have a house, or be a family anymore?
The questions were too big to answer, and even if I could, I didn’t have the energy.
All I could do was stare out the window into the night and let the tears roll down my cheeks.
Eventually, my eyes would grow heavy and I’d doze off into fitful sleep. I’d wake before sunrise, rub my eyes, and lament, “I used to be vibrant… present, loving, silly. But now I’m nothing but a ghost—a shell—of the woman I once was.”
From Numbness to Understanding
I eventually learned that there was a name for that “ghost-shell.” It was my body’s way of protecting me—a biological emergency brake pulled when the pain became too much to process in real-time. It wasn’t that I had lost my spark. My nervous system had shuttered the windows and locked the doors to keep me from shattering completely.
I soon discovered I wasn’t the only one living in this hollowed-out space after joining a support group at a friend’s suggestion. It was there, sitting in a circle of women with similar stories, that I saw my own reflection. Our lives and relationships had been ruptured in different ways, but our bodies spoke the same language of exhaustion and numbness.
Intimate betrayal didn’t just break your heart. It moved into your bones. And every one of us was desperate to find our way back to ourselves again.
One Kind Thing
Our facilitator often encouraged our group to practice “radical self-care.” But most of us were caregivers at home or the workplace, and had no idea what that even meant. Adding “radical” to the mix made it sound like more work than any of us had energy or bandwidth to try.
So eventually, she phrased the question differently: “What’s one kind thing you did for yourself this week?”
At first, our answers felt embarrassingly simple:
I washed my hair this morning.
I drank an extra cup of water.
I let myself cry while the kids were at school.
I didn’t check his social media for three hours.
I called a friend and let her prayers wash over me.
These weren’t breakthroughs or bold acts of healing. They were things we used to do without thinking, before everything in our lives fractured.
Coming Back to Myself
But week by week, those small acts of care started to do something I hadn’t expected. I began to notice sensations returning:
The sticky summer air against my forearms. The fresh cut blades of grass under my feet.
The taste of watermelon and its juice dripping off my chin.
The way a short utterance of God, you are holding me, unclenched my jaw.
The way my thoughts stilled and came into order as my pen moved across the journal.
Focusing on one small, kind thing wasn’t just practical. It was merciful.
Healing Doesn’t Have to Be Radical
When the brain and body are in survival mode after a traumatic event, asking ourselves to heal in big, sweeping ways can actually add to the overwhelm we’re already experiencing. It’s no wonder the thought of practicing “radical self-care” can feel so unattainable.
But small acts of care can widen the window just enough for the ghost-shell to settle, and for us to feel our feet on the ground again.
Healing doesn’t have to be radical to be real. Sometimes it begins with one kind thing.
Maybe for you, that looks like inhaling and exhaling a breath prayer, sitting outside with a book you’ve wanted to read, or doing something creative with your hands: finger-painting, watercolor, knitting, even making mud pies with your daughter.
Whatever form it takes, I hope you’ll offer yourself one kind thing today.
