Soni's Spark Shack

By Soni’s Spark Shack

It doesn’t announce itself.

It slides in—slow at first—like a fog creeping under a locked door. And then, suddenly, it’s everywhere.

My focus disappears. It slips right through my fingers, and I can’t remember where I last had it. The room begins to tilt, not literally—but something in my body sways like the world just shifted without warning. I blink hard, hoping to land back in myself.

But I don’t.

My heart punches its way out of rhythm, like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely. Each beat is too loud, too fast. It doesn’t feel like a heartbeat anymore—it feels like a siren.

Inside my head, the filing cabinet bursts open.
Every drawer. Every folder.
Thoughts scatter like paper in a windstorm. There’s no order, no logic—just pieces of memories and fears, flying in every direction.

I hear everything. Too much.
A door creaks, and I flinch. A voice rises, and it crashes through me like thunder. Every sound sharpens, piercing my skin and prying open nerves I didn’t even know were raw.

My legs can’t stay still. My feet twitch, shift, pace without instruction. I try to breathe. I tell myself—just breathe. But even that feels wrong. The sound of my breath feels jagged and stupid. The rise of my chest feels fake. I judge it all. I judge me.

The thoughts shift—faster now. Harsher.
What’s wrong with you?
Why can’t you just calm down?
You’re too much. You’re always too much.

I want out.
Of the moment.
Of my body.
Of the looping chaos that hijacks my mind.

There’s sadness—but also rage.
Anger that I even have to feel this.
Anger that no matter how much I want to think positive, I can’t seem to make it stick. And so I pressure myself. I throw around those fake-cheerleader phrases: You can do this. You’re strong. Breathe through it. But they crumble the second they leave my lips.

I tell myself I can. But I don’t believe me.

Sometimes I wish I could just drive—anywhere, nowhere. Keep going until my thoughts get lost in the mileage. But I know they’d follow. They always do. Like shadows you can’t outrun.
And then that makes me feel stuck. Trapped in a loop. Like my own mind is a house with no doors.

I remember what I used to do as a kid—run.
Just run.
Get away from everything until the world went quiet again.
And even now, that urge is still there. To escape.
But there’s no finish line when your thoughts ride in your chest.

And still… I wish for freedom.
Not peace. Not perfection. Just a moment where the storm lifts and I can feel okay again. Where I don’t have to fight so hard just to be still.

If you’re still reading this…

Maybe you’ve felt this, too.
Maybe your storms look different—but the weight is familiar.

Please hear this:
You are not broken.
You are not weak.
You are surviving something heavy with a heart that still hopes for light.
That alone is a kind of courage the world doesn’t see often enough.

If today is hard—pause.
Put your hand on your chest.
Feel the beat, however frantic.
You’re still here. You’re still trying. And that matters more than perfect words or perfect healing.

You don’t have to outrun the storm.
You can stand in it, even if you’re trembling.
And when it passes—and it will pass—there’s still you, underneath it all.
Still worthy. Still whole.

You are never alone in this.