Finding Calm When You Feel Like Drowning

Sometimes it feels like drowning. Like something thick and heavy is pressing down on your chest, squeezing the air out. You can’t think straight, can't string a sentence together. Everything just blurs into noise and panic. I know that feeling *deep*. Those six months after… man, those were rough. It wasn’t about sadness or anger, not really. It was this heavy blanket of *everything* all at once. A grayness that coated every surface.

I couldn't make decisions then. Even the smallest ones felt impossible. What to eat? Which beat to work on? Should I even bother posting anything online? The weight would settle in, a constant low hum vibrating through my bones. And the worst part was knowing I *should* be doing something – making music, connecting with people – but feeling completely paralyzed by the intensity of it all.

What helped me pull myself out wasn't some profound revelation or big gesture. It was small shifts, tiny adjustments to how I interacted with that weight. The first thing I realized was trying to *fight* it just made it worse. The more I wrestled against the feeling, the stronger it became. So I started letting it be there. Just acknowledging it: "Okay, this is heavy. This is overwhelming.”

That in itself felt like a release. It took the pressure off having to “fix” anything immediately. It was enough to just *notice*. Then came the physical stuff. Moving my body—even something as simple as pacing around my apartment or doing some jumping jacks – made a difference. The rhythm, the movement… it started to break through the fog. I’d put on an old Tribe Called Quest record and just move. No choreography, no judgment. Just letting the music flow through me.

Then there was the repetition. Sounds weird maybe, but creating something familiar, predictable – a simple beat loop that I knew inside and out – became my anchor. It wasn't about making anything *good*. It was about establishing a routine, a ritual. Something to focus on when my brain felt like static. The consistency brought a small pocket of stability in what felt like constant chaos.

I also started paying attention to my senses—really paying attention. What did I see? What did I hear? What did the air feel like on my skin? It sounds cheesy, but pulling myself into the present moment, even for a few seconds, could interrupt the spiral of anxiety. Sometimes it was as simple as noticing the pattern of sunlight through the blinds or listening to the birds outside my window in Lincoln Park.

The six hundred dollars from that first paid placement didn’t erase all the doubt, believe me. But it *did* feel like a signpost pointing towards something real. Proof that the work I was putting in – even when I couldn't see or feel any reward – wasn’t for nothing. That quiet validation shifted my perspective. It helped me understand that navigating those intense feelings isn't about conquering them, but learning to coexist with them, and finding your way back to a place of groundedness, one small step at a time.

It’s still a process, this whole thing. Some days are easier than others. But I know now that the ability to find that pocket of calm within myself—to recognize the feeling, move my body, create something familiar—that's the real strength. That’s what keeps you afloat when you feel like you’re drowning.