For so many years, my nervous system was a storm. Stress, anxiety, and worry had become my weather — the background hum that told me I was alive. Survival was the rhythm I knew. Now, walking into this Ross procedure, there’s something different. There’s calm. Presence. Awareness. And in its quietness, I feel something almost unfamiliar — peace. It’s peculiar to stand here without the usual weight of fear. My body, once trained to brace for impact, now hesitates, uncertain what to do with stillness. The mind whispers, *“Is this safe?”* The old wiring still checks for danger, still waits for the tremor. But there’s no tremor. Only breath. Only this moment. What I’m learning is that healing feels strange at first — not because it’s wrong, but because it’s new. The nervous system has to unlearn the habit of protection before it can learn the truth of peace.

This is recovery in its purest form — not just the absence of numbing or chaos, but the presence of ease. The quiet I used to fear — it's revealing itself as grace.