I realize now just how lucky I have been for the past fifty-eight years. Sure, a few issues here and there, mostly related to my sports habit. But no big problems. Until now.

And to be clear, this isn’t a big problem. But it is a problem. One that needs to be fixed. Medicine to be prescribed. Diet to be adjusted. Activities to shift. Gratitude that it isn’t worse, and humility in recognizing that I now have something to fight.

When the weight kept coming off, I figured I had better get it checked out. Mostly, I wanted to make sure I didn’t have cancer. Thankfully, no cancer. Something else entirely — a hormonal imbalance diagnosed as hyperthyroidism. I had never even heard of such a thing.

I’m not going to list all the symptoms or try to explain exactly how it feels. Suffice it to say that everything is racing. My metabolism. My heart. My emotions. Everything feels faster, and yet I am exhausted by the end of the day. And the headaches. Most nights end with my aching head on my pillow, eyes closed and hoping the pain will go away.

But the anxiety is the worst part.

I’ve come to think of anxiety in two different ways. There is the external anxiety — the kind I’ve always had. The regular, run-of-the-mill stuff. Paying the bills. Supporting my clients. Taking care of the kids. The everyday worries that come with being a grown-up and having responsibilities. And then there is this new anxiety. Internal anxiety. Something entirely different. A pervasive sense of unease. Restlessness. Thoughts that won’t settle. A disquiet somewhere deep inside my brain that I can’t quite explain and can’t seem to escape.

And here’s the rub. Alcohol helps with that. A lot. And so, without judgment or much regret, I have started drinking again. It is a salve. It quiets my mind. It gives me a little respite from the constant internal noise. Right now, it feels like the only thing that does. Exercise used to help. Running. Cycling. The endorphins would erase away that internal noise. But I can’t do anything right now that stresses my heart.

I’m not proud of it. And I don’t think it will continue. At least, I hope it won’t. I’m trying to acknowledge what I’m doing without drowning myself in guilt. To recognize that I am dealing with something new and uncomfortable and frightening, and that I haven’t quite figured out how to manage it yet.

I know the risks. I know how easily something that begins as a comfort can become something else entirely. I know that just because something makes me feel better doesn’t mean it’s good for me. I also know the joy and peace I have felt for the past two years without alcohol in my life. I never thought I would pick up another glass. But here I am.

And perhaps that is the hardest part of all of this. Holding those two truths at once. Giving myself grace without giving myself permission to ignore what I know.

Be still my beating heart.