sᴏ ᴍɪsᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴏᴏᴅ, ᴘᴏᴛs

part i: misunderstanding

so misunderstood
it has to keep introducing itself
in rooms where no one believes it belongs.

joy borrowed on credit,
paid back in stillness.
not as punishment —
just how the body keeps its books.

once it was called rare.
once it arrived quietly,
a diagnosis whispered between specialists,
passed hand to hand,
after years of being told

you’re fine.
your tests look normal.
maybe you’re anxious.
maybe you’re stressed.
maybe you just need to try harder.

while the body quietly wasn’t fine.
while the body was learning
what it costs
to stand up.

now it’s more visible —
not because it is new,
not because it has changed,
still often unseen,
still often unnamed,

but because more bodies
have been forced
to carry the truth
of fragile regulation.

forced to feel
what happens
when gravity becomes work.

from the outside,
you might not see it.

you see someone standing.
you don’t see the heart sprinting
just to stay upright.

you see someone laughing.
you don’t see the calculation underneath —
how long can i last
what will this cost later
what will i have to give back.

it’s mistaken for anxiety.
for weakness.
for not wanting it badly enough.

but this lives in the space
between effort and consequence.
between standing
and the sudden rush of heart and breath.

a heart that races
simply to meet gravity.
a body that needs permission to pause
in a world
that rarely offers it.

what misunderstanding costs
is not just education —
it’s trust.

it’s being questioned
by people who love you.
it’s explaining symptoms
to doctors trained
to look for damage they can measure.

it’s having good days
used as evidence.
see? you’re fine.

and quiet days
used as verdicts.
you must not be trying.

pots is not a failure of will.
say it again.

pots
is not
a failure
of will.

it is a body
negotiating physics
inside a culture
that worships endurance.

part ii: living with it

some days begin softly.

i sit on the edge of the bed
and wait for my body to arrive.
one hand on my chest.
one on my thighs.

i let the room come into focus
before i stand.

my heart races anyway —
but less.
enough that i can follow it
instead of fight it.

in the kitchen,
the light moves slowly across the floor.
i choose the smaller mug.
i lean against the counter.
i pause between sips.

nothing remarkable happens.
and that feels
like a kind of success.

other days move faster
than the body can.

i stand too quickly.
the room tilts.
my heart surges ahead of me,
already running,
already late.

i grip the doorframe and wait.
count nothing.
just breathe long enough
for the floor to stay still.

what once felt energizing
now requires recovery.

a good laugh.
a short outing.
a moment of feeling almost normal.

each one carrying a cost
that arrives later,
quietly.

joy, borrowed forward.
returned later
in heaviness,
in stillness,
in the long exhale that follows.

this isn’t failure.
it’s physics.

a body learning
a new language of balance.
not broken.
just recalibrating.

so you learn another way
of moving through the world.

you pace
in a world that rewards pushing.
you rest without permission.
you stop performing wellness
for the comfort of others.

a “good day”
becomes a good hour.
sometimes two.

and you prepare for those hours
the way someone else might train for a race —
by resting before,
by listening closely,
by stopping early.

this road is long.
there is no clean timeline.

but steadiness —
quiet, patient, unseen —
still counts.

♡ ᴄᴀʀᴍᴇʟ ʀᴏsᴇ
The Still Point