Holding My Breath in Familiar Places

Every year we come back to Colorado for the holidays, and every year it wears on me in ways that are hard to explain out loud.

On the surface, nothing is wrong. Family gatherings. Full calendars. Kids laughing with their cousins. All the things that are supposed to feel good. But underneath it, I feel drained in a way that sleep does not fix. I am not tired because I am doing too much. I am tired because there is no rhythm. No routine. No place for my nervous system to settle.

I am trying to work during the day. Trying to stay present at night. Trying to be grateful. Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to take up too much emotional space. Trying is exhausting.

I am not sleepy. I am tired.

At some point during the trip, I noticed the deeper feeling. Numbness. Emptiness. A sense of being unmoored. Together they form something that feels like sadness, but it is quieter than that. Heavier. Like I have pulled inward and forgotten how to reach back out.

My mom asked me what this year looks like for me. I told her I don’t do that. I said there is too much that comes unexpectedly. That part is true. But it is also a shield. It is easier to say I do not plan than to admit I feel passionless. Empty. Like I am just hanging on and trying to get through the holidays.

Mariah knows I am tired. She is supportive at the level I bring her. And that is the problem. I am editing myself to protect her. I am being careful not to trauma dump. I am trying to be a good partner. But when you edit yourself long enough, loneliness sneaks in quietly. You can be loved and still feel alone with what you are carrying.

The guilt comes next. My girls love being here with their cousins. That should be enough. But they are out of rhythm, and that means their emotions spill more easily. I spend my energy helping them regulate while my own system is already depleted. I feel guilty for wanting to go home when they are happy. As if wanting safety means I am ungrateful.

There is another layer that is harder to talk about.

I have been down here more than a dozen times since the fire. I will run a simple errand and turn onto a street I drove that day. The feeling comes back instantly. Not as a story, but as a physical memory. Trauma does not ask permission. It just shows up.

My sisters stayed. They built new memories on top of the old ones. Their streets softened over time. Mine did not. I left. Which means every visit pulls the same memory back up at full strength. I do not have enough new moments here to dilute the old one.

So this place still hurts.

I am not here to heal. I am here to survive the holidays. That means I am holding my breath emotionally. When you do that long enough, numbness becomes protection.

Wanting to go home does not make me selfish. It does not mean I love my kids less. It means home is where my body feels safest. Right now, safety matters more than tradition.

When I asked myself what I actually need, the answer surprised me with its simplicity.

An exhale.

That is it.

Not clarity. Not passion. Not a five year plan. Just release. The ability to stop bracing. To stop scanning. To stop remembering without choosing to.

I realized something important in that moment. This is not depression returning. This is sustained containment finally reaching its limit. I have been strong for a long time in quiet ways that do not get noticed. When the structure drops away, the body finally speaks.

Some places do not let us soften. That is not a failure. It is memory.

So I am giving myself permission to not fix this here. I do not need to process the fire in this place. I do not need to plan a year I cannot feel yet. I do not need to extract meaning from this trip.

My only job is to not add more weight until I get home.

When I imagine being back there, it is not dramatic. It is sitting on the couch looking out the window at the trees and mountains. Waking up to routine. Taking one full breath without anyone needing anything from me. That is enough.

I am not lost. I am tired of carrying without relief.

For now, I am allowed to hold my breath a little longer, knowing the exhale is coming.