The Days When I Don’t Feel Like Myself

Some days I wake up feeling like a stranger in my own body, as if the person in the mirror is someone I’m supposed to recognise but can’t fully connect with. I move through the day with a quiet disorientation, trying to act normal while a part of me feels slightly blurred, slightly distant, slightly off. There is no trigger, no clear cause. Just a lingering sense that I am not entirely present.

On those days, I judge myself harshly. I tell myself I should be able to function normally. I should be stable. I should be grounded. But the truth is that dissociation doesn’t care about my expectations. It arrives like a fog - slow, stubborn, and strangely familiar. And instead of offering myself compassion, I often respond with frustration: Why can’t I just get it together? Why does this still happen? Why am I like this?

But blaming myself never brings me back. It only pushes me further away.

What I’ve slowly realised is that these moments are not signs of weakness. They are signals. My mind disconnects when something inside me feels overwhelmed or unsafe, even if I can’t immediately identify the reason. It is not a failure of strength - it is a protective instinct. An old one. One I learned long before I had the language to describe it.

When I remind myself of this, something softens. I stop demanding explanations from myself and start observing instead. I notice the tightness in my chest, the restlessness in my thoughts, the heaviness in my limbs. I notice the parts of me that feel lost, and the parts that are trying to return.

I am learning to meet myself where I am, even when where I am feels unstable. I am learning that grounding is not a dramatic act; sometimes it is as simple as sitting still, breathing slowly, and acknowledging that this moment will pass. And it always does. The fog lifts in its own time, leaving behind a quiet clarity I couldn’t reach by force.

These days do not define me. They only remind me that healing is not linear, and that my mind has survived more than I give it credit for. When I stop punishing myself for my symptoms, I begin to see myself more accurately - not as someone broken, but as someone coping.

And coping, even imperfectly, is still a form of strength.