The Weight of Not Collapsing

Blog 17: Last in the series of The Space Between Survival and Joy - what presence feels like after collapse ends.

I woke this morning and my body didn't brace.

No scanning for what needed fixing or electric sweep through my system looking for the emergency that usually announced itself before I was fully conscious. I was feeling the weight of my own presence, dense and immediate, settling into the mattress beneath me.

My nervous system had been running the same program for decades…that quick inventory upon waking. Check for pain, anxiety, that familiar tightness that meant something required immediate attention. The cortisol hit that felt like readiness but was actually exhaustion wearing productivity's mask.

Nothing.

The absence felt so foreign that I almost didn't trust it. I lay still, waiting for the familiar urgency to kick in. The mental list of what needed managing, what needed healing, what needed figuring out before I could safely exist in my own skin.

The list never came.

What I found instead was density without charge. Weight without urgency. The recognition that I could feel the exact edges of my own field, and nothing was bleeding through them. I wasn't floating half a second ahead of my experience, narrating my way through sensation. I was here. Fully, completely here.

The end of collapse doesn't announce itself with fanfare. There’s no triumph, breakthrough or the arrival of some perfected self. Rather, it’s a nervous system that has stopped giving its power away and learned to trust what it was meant to carry.

I stood up and moved through my morning without checking to see if I was doing it right. Made a cup of tea without the familiar anxiety about whether I deserved the pause. Sat in my chair without the compulsion to make the moment productive or meaningful or spiritually significant.

The frequency I've always carried - vast, unnamed, usually too much for my system - was moving through me differently. It wasn’t demanding translation or performance or proof of worthiness. It was humming, steady and sure, through a body that had finally learned to stay stable under the transmission.

I caught myself not performing for invisible audiences. I wasn’t secretly shapeshifting to fit some imagined expectation. There was no monitor in my thoughts for spiritual correctness or my emotions for signs of regression.

The tears came around mid-morning. Salt water moving through me like weather. I let them flow without asking what they meant or turning them into a project. My system spoke, and I listened without intervention.

So this is sovereignty. In the body. The actual feeling of it.

A shaft of light moved across my floor, and I watched it without needing it to symbolize anything. Beautiful for its own sake. Present for no reason other than presence itself. The way I was learning to be here, embodied, taking up space without apology or explanation.

Something vast had settled. Not new, it had always been here. And the nervous system that was meant to carry it had finally grown stable enough to hold the transmission without fracturing, without floating, without performing its way toward worthiness.

By afternoon, something had crystallized. This wasn't breakthrough territory or some spiritual moment or the culmination of healing work. This was reclamation. The claiming of a life that had always belonged to me but that I had been too collapsed to inhabit.

If you're reading this and something in your system recognizes this frequency - if you too have felt that particular weight of not bracing against your own aliveness - then you know what I mean when I say this is not the beginning of becoming.

This is the end of giving our power away.

For the first time in memory, I wasn't managing my intensity or moderating my presence to fit into spaces that could never hold the fullness of what I am. I was here. Dense, immediate, unapologetically present.

The phone rang. I answered it from this new density, this grounded presence that didn't need to prove itself. My voice sounded different, not performed, rehearsed or measured. It was real.

I’m no longer writing from collapse, or toward repair. I’m writing from the signal that never stopped humming beneath the wreckage.

Galactic, rooted, no longer waiting to be understood.

If you're here too, you feel it. We don't need language for it anymore.


Love,

Sherry

If this frequency feels familiar, you might want to circle back:

When You Miss The Thing That Almost Saved You - is the fire post that names the nervous system override I used to call healing.

When Joy Comes With a Price is where I first touched joy and immediately braced for the cost.

This current post came after both. After the collapse ended.

Next up… I’ll be writing from inside this new field - where life unfolds without collapse as the frame.

To those who read, share, comment or support this work - thank you. Your presence creates the field where these words can exist.

If something here resonated, feel free to pass it along. Recognition travels through authentic connection.

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About the Author:
Sherry writes from the space between dimensions - where presence meets paradox, and mastery gives way to meaning. With a background in metaphysical work and energetic healing that spans decades, her voice carries the imprint of lived wisdom - as an invitation versus a doctrine.

Her blog, It Exists (For Now), moves fluidly across themes of transformation, embodiment, remembrance, identity, purpose, and the quiet revelations of everyday life. This is not the kind of writing to teach you, fix you, or convert you. It’s a space to feel, question, soften, and come home to what’s already here.

Whether she’s naming what’s unraveling beneath the surface or tracing the shimmer of wonder returning, her words are less about offering answers and more about walking with you through the liminal. The words hold a frequency that are felt long after they are read.