Let’s Start With The Crap

My mother hated that word. Crap.

She thought it was ugly.

She wasn’t wrong.

And that’s exactly why I want to start here—because this part of the story is ugly, uncomfortable, and real.

I haven’t been feeling well.

And because of that, I haven’t really been able to work.

Not because I’m completely down and out every single day, but because the health issues I’m dealing with are wildly intermittent. I never quite know when they’re going to show up. Add in two to three doctor’s appointments every week, and sticking to any kind of predictable schedule becomes nearly impossible.

As a psychotherapist, I understand how important consistency is—how much it matters that the therapist shows up. And as a client myself, I know how hard it is when a session gets canceled. That awareness alone has kept me from working more than I have. It hasn’t felt fair to anyone.

Of course, not working brings its own stress. Financial stress. Identity stress. The quiet panic that creeps in when structure disappears. I wouldn’t be surprised if that stress is feeding the physical symptoms. Bodies and minds are funny like that.

Here’s the longer truth: I’ve gotten sick a lot throughout my adult life. And when I get sick, I get really sick. I’m prone to infections. They linger. I tend to be resistant to antibiotics. Over time, it’s only gotten worse.

In the last six months, I’ve probably been sick more than I’ve been well.

And “sick” doesn’t mean one clear thing anymore.

It means inflamed, swollen, painful joints.

Digestive issues and everything that comes along with that.

Crushing fatigue.

Brain fog.

Tinnitus.

Temperature swings.

An inability to regulate my own body.

It means feeling like a stranger inside my own body.

So I see a rheumatologist. An oncologist. An orthopedic surgeon. I wouldn’t be shocked if another specialist gets added to the list at some point.

I also have a knee replacement that was done almost three years ago—and it has failed. There’s a hardware malfunction. I’ve been walking on it for well over a year, knowing it needs to be revised. I’ve been terrified to do it.

Time off work.

No income.

More uncertainty.

Those fears are powerful.

But now the inflammation is starting to affect circulation in my foot, and it’s no longer something I can ignore. It’s very possible this knee has been contributing to the systemic inflammation all along, alongside recently diagnosed inflammatory arthritis.

So physically… things haven’t been great.

There’s also another layer of crap—the emotional kind.

There are people in my life who aren’t completely supportive of some of the directions I’m going. And there are people incredibly close to me who don’t see eye to eye with me on a number of things. That’s not new. That’s life.

But right now, it feels louder.

When your body is already struggling, when your capacity is thin, even ordinary relational differences can feel heavier. Conversations carry more weight. Disagreements linger longer. There are moments of feeling misunderstood, unseen, or simply out of sync with people you care deeply about.

None of this makes anyone the villain.

What this season does require, though, is a deeper commitment to trusting myself—even when that trust isn’t shared or affirmed by everyone around me. I’m learning that not every choice needs consensus to be valid, and not every path needs universal approval to be true.

Part of this work has been practicing firmer boundaries: holding my direction without over-explaining, staying connected without abandoning myself, and allowing others to have their opinions without letting them override my inner knowing.

That isn’t always comfortable. But it feels necessary.

And that tension—the emotional labor of choosing self-trust while staying in relationship—is also part of the crap.

There’s another piece tied to this next chapter.

Part of this exciting journey involves relocation. Not far. Still in the state. Within a couple of hours. And yet… it has stirred things up more than I expected.

Some people think I will fail.

That’s not me reading between the lines. That’s been said plainly. And hearing that awakens the inner critic—the one that whispers, well… you have in the past.

And then I have to answer that voice with the truth.

I haven’t failed.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve misjudged. I’ve trusted the wrong things at times. But I’ve always gotten back up. Failure would mean I didn’t. And I have no history of staying down.

So while there is a part of me that is terrified—because this matters—there is not a single part of me that believes I will fail this time. I feel deeply confident about what’s coming. That confidence doesn’t come from bravado. It comes from knowing myself.

Still, moving brings its own grief.

Not working has given me time—unexpected, quiet time—to be in the places that have shaped me for nearly thirty years. I’ve been walking among familiar trees. Sitting near familiar water. Letting the earth hold me in ways it always has.

These places carry memory.

Memories of my mother.

Memories of my family.

Memories of when life felt simpler.

Memories of when things were good.

And now I’m starting to grieve those places. The land. The familiarity. The way my body knows where it is without thinking.

That grief is part of the crap too.

There’s one more piece I need to say out loud.

I miss my mom.

I miss her voice. I miss the way she grounded me. I miss having someone who knew me from the very beginning and loved me without needing updates or explanations.

And I miss being part of a family in the way family is supposed to feel. I miss belonging. I miss ease. I miss knowing where I land.

Grief has a way of resurfacing when you’re already tired—when your body is asking for care and your spirit is stretched thin. Some days it’s quiet. Other days it feels like another thing I’m carrying.

And if I’m being honest, I can fall into self-pity like nobody’s business. I can talk to myself in ways I would never talk to someone I love. That’s part of the crap too.

The good news is—I’m catching it more often now. I’m learning to interrupt it. I’m learning to speak to myself with a little more kindness. That part is getting better.

At the same time, I’ve been working on a book—one that originally centered on a traumatic chapter of my life. And somewhere along the way—through writing, reflection, and listening inward—that book has begun to change.

It’s slowly moving away from being trauma-focused and toward something else. Something broader. Something more alive.

So in this first “here’s what’s really going on” post—after announcing that I’m on an exciting new journey—I wanted to get the crap out of the way.

This is the crap.

And here’s the hope part.

Once the knee revision happens—and I get through it—I’ll be forced to sit. And anyone who knows me knows… I don’t sit easily. Maybe this will be the kind of stillness I actually need.

Time to write.

Time to plan.

Time to dream without running.

Maybe this surgery isn’t just a setback. Maybe it’s a strange invitation.

I also wonder—quietly, gently—if some of what I’m carrying isn’t purely physical. If there isn’t a spiritual layer to all of this. A soul-level fatigue asking for attention. And as I continue walking this new path—one that has a deep spiritual component—I hope my body will begin to respond too.

That’s the hope I’m holding. And I thank my Creator for the ongoing guidance and protection that I am given. Chi Miigwech Manidoo.

So if you’re the praying type, the good-vibes type, the candle-lighting type—I’ll take it all. And I’m sending the same right back to you.

Because whatever crap you’re carrying right now…

I hope it starts to loosen its grip soon too.

Sending Good Vibes,

Naazh