Run, not to vanish—
but to breathe.
To trade deadlines
for dandelions,
And the noise in your head
for the hush of leaves.
Run,
to remember
who you were
before the world
told you who to be.
Entry from a difficult time…
I don’t know where to begin. These past few months have been so full of information, change, emotions, and life-changing decisions that I’ve felt so stressed and overwhelmed, it started showing physically.
Since I left Sweden and moved back to France in June 2024, my mental health had been mostly stable. I’d even dare say I was optimistic for the first time in a very long time, if ever.
I was still lost. I was still struggling financially. But I felt okay, confident even.
When winter 2024 came, my landlords told me they would need the house back by the end of May 2025. It gave me a new push to find a job and get back into the professional world.
I first found a part-time, three-day-a-week job sewing accessories (bags, wallets, embroidery…) for an association for women. It was the best I’d ever felt at work. I adored my colleagues, the management was fair and kind, and the job itself was fun.
After five and a half months, though, I still had no chance of finding housing because my income was too low, and my contract too unstable for landlords, which is fair, honestly.
So I started to get really stressed. I was searching for a full-time, permanent, corporate job with decent pay, and I was relying on that future job to finally find an affordable place to live nearby.
Heh.
The stress first showed up like an allergic reaction. I woke up one day with eyes so swollen I could barely see, and red, itchy patches all over my skin. I couldn’t even recognize my own face in the mirror. It was honestly traumatic.
That was in March 2025. Since then, my face has been mostly okay, but I take daily medication to keep the plaques from coming back. My psychiatrist also increased my antidepressants—I now take two pills a day to manage anxiety and depression.
My colleagues at the sewing job were incredibly kind. We got along so well. After a few weeks, they’d come to me when they needed a laugh or a morale boost. They told me I was a little sunshine, the most positive person they knew. I was the one cracking jokes at lunch and helping everyone relax.
At the same time, I had four days a week off, and I would spend most of them sitting on the floor in my room, watching time pass, applying to jobs when I found something that looked decent.
At work, I was euphoric. At home, I was empty or stressed.
Still, that job helped me a lot. It gave me back some confidence : in myself, and in the working world. I realised what really matters to me isn’t the job itself, but the environment, the people, and the sense that I bring something meaningful to the table.
Eventually, I landed a new job—well paid, with good benefits, full-time and permanent, in a small company. I was optimistic.
I’d finally be able to afford a little house in the countryside and start rebuilding my life. I was still stressed, but I was hopeful.
I’ve been working there for a month and a half now. My trial period ends in three weeks. I haven’t found housing. And my mind has been a minefield I’ve been trying to cross ever since I started.
I’m exhausted. I keep telling myself I have no other option. That I should feel grateful. That I need to be patient. That I must focus on my long-term goals.
My colleagues are mostly nice. Management is mostly fair.
The job is… corporate.
But I feel useless. The work feels meaningless. I feel watched, judged, and under pressure every day. I’m so fucking bored.
Sometimes I even feel attacked. Maybe 25% of that is real, and 75% is in my head.
I keep trying to stay positive. To remind myself that I’m my own worst critic. That I just need to be patient. That it takes time to feel comfortable in any job.
But the truth is, I want to run. To protect myself. To disappear from the eyes watching me.
But there’s no running away from your own mind.
I can’t create anything. I haven’t been able to read in months. Everything that used to bring me joy feels out of reach.
What do I do?
Is it my instinct telling me I’m not where I’m supposed to be?
Or is it just depression and anxiety doing their thing—ruining my life again?
I feel stuck.
I feel empty.
I feel stressed.
I’m overwhelmed. And I want to disappear into the forest, into a world where money doesn’t matter.