Falling Apart (But Still Here)

There’s a part of me that’s gone quiet lately.

The part that used to burn bright. That used to say yes to late nights, to shows, to wild ideas and passionate conversations. The part that could laugh so hard I’d cry, or cry so deeply it meant healing, not defeat.

Now, I just feel… nothing. Or too much. Or both.

I haven’t felt like working on my podcast, even though I care about it deeply. I haven’t felt like doing much at all. Just getting through the day takes everything I’ve got. Between bills piling up, food prices climbing, and the weight of just surviving — I feel like I’m drowning in slow motion. And I keep wondering: What’s the point of all of this?

But I still jam my music. It’s the one thing that hasn’t let go of me.

Music has always been my anchor. No matter how far I drift, it pulls me back — to a memory, to a version of myself I recognize. It’s the only thing keeping the spark alive when everything else feels like it’s gone dim.

What hurts the most is how I’ve started to distance myself from the things I love.

The things that used to give me life.

Things like promoting shows, writing with purpose, chasing creative dreams.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped believing I could do it anymore. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s the way the world just beat some of that hope out of me. Or maybe it’s because some of my biggest dreams were shattered — and I never picked them back up. I think part of me just… gave up. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just stopped chasing and started settling.

I’m not sure what happened. Maybe it’s the state of the world — the anger, the division, the cruelty. Maybe it’s burnout from giving too much and getting so little in return. Maybe it’s grief. Creeping back in after being quiet for a while.

The last three and a half years have brought more loss than I ever asked for. Loved ones. Routines. Dreams. Versions of myself. The grief doesn’t scream — it whispers. It builds. It shows up in the tiniest cracks — a song lyric, a smell, an old photo — and suddenly I’m sobbing, or silent, or completely withdrawn.

I am literally falling apart inside.

I smile at work. I act fine around friends, coworkers, and family. I laugh, I make conversation, I show up. But underneath that mask, I’m breaking.

I feel like everything is slipping away.

Like nothing will ever get better.

And I’m terrified to say that out loud, because I don’t want to seem ungrateful or dramatic — I just want someone to notice that I’m not okay.

I get no time to myself. I come home from work and the second I walk in, I’m letting the dogs out, cleaning up messes, cooking dinner or running to pick it up. There’s no pause. No moment to just breathe or feel. I go to bed drained, and I wake up still tired.

I don’t know what I expected my life to look like at this age.

But it wasn’t this.

I had dreams — big ones. I had things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go, parts of myself I thought I’d grow into. And I look around now, and the majority of them never happened.

I feel like I failed myself.

No one else. Just me.

My choices. My distractions. My detours.

I don’t blame anyone. I made the path. I walked it. And I accept it.

I don’t live with massive regrets, but I do have a few. Still, the thing I’m proudest of — more than anything else — is being a mom to my four kids. That’s the one thing I know I did right. The one part of my life I’d never take back, never question.

And maybe that’s why I carry so much fear with me now.

I worry constantly.

I worry about bills, about paychecks, about how I’m going to keep everything afloat.

But more than anything, I worry about my kids.

With the way this country is right now — with the hate, the violence, the fear, the division — I lie awake some nights wondering what kind of world they’re inheriting. I wonder if I’ve done enough. If they’ll be okay. If they’ll find peace, purpose, or safety in a world that feels like it’s unraveling.

And maybe part of why I feel so drained — so mentally and emotionally raw — is because the world itself feels heavy right now.

There’s so much negativity out there. You can feel it just stepping outside. You see it online. You hear it in the way people talk to each other — sharp, impatient, defensive. So many people only care about themselves anymore. Compassion feels like it’s in short supply. Kindness feels rare. Everyone’s rushing. Everyone’s angry. And sometimes it feels like no one’s listening.

I try to stay grounded in the good, but it’s getting harder. The energy out there is heavy. It weighs on me before I even realize it. It makes me want to pull back, hide away, and protect whatever peace I have left — even if that peace feels fragile.

And if I’m being honest… my emotions are all over the place.

One minute I feel okay, like maybe I’m finding my footing again. The next, I’m crying over something small, or shutting down completely. I feel raw. Unsteady. Like I’m riding waves I can’t predict — sadness, anger, grief, apathy, hope — sometimes all in one day. Sometimes all in one hour.

It’s exhausting.

It’s human.

And it’s real.

I’m not crazy. I’m not weak. I’m just overwhelmed. I’m grieving. I’m stretched thin. And I’m trying to give myself grace, even when it feels like I’m failing.

I don’t know how to fix this yet. But I know I had to write it. To admit it. To get it out of my chest and onto a page. Because keeping it in has started to break me.

And maybe you feel like this too. Maybe you’ve felt like you’re splintering. Like the world is too much and you’re too tired to hold it together.

If so, I see you. I’m with you.

I’m not okay. But I’m still here.

Even if I’m falling apart.

And maybe — just maybe — letting the pieces fall is the only way we ever learn how to rebuild.

Peace, Love and Loud Music

Mickey