When Everything Fell Apart: My Lowest Point 1/12

It was a beautiful late spring afternoon in spring 2013/14, the kind where the air smells of possibility and the world feels alive. I was 33, sitting in my dimly lit living room, hunched over my laptop, researching something mundane for my auditing job. Suddenly, a powerful force surged within me. My body trembled, my mind spun like a tornado, and I dropped my laptop, the screen flashing as it hit the floor. I leapt from the sofa and stumbled to the living room window, where I froze. My heart pounded, my limbs felt locked, and even though I was fully conscious, I found myself unable to move or speak. I stood there, a statue in my home, as the world I knew unraveled.

In that moment, something surreal unfolded. Five shadowy figures appeared—not in the room, but in my mind, vivid and undeniable. They were debating, their voices echoing inside me, arguing about me—my worth, my failures, my existence. I wanted to scream, “I’m right here!” but they didn’t care. They weren’t malevolent, but their indifference was terrifying. It was as if I was both the subject and a bystander in my own life. Off work for almost a month now, I was unwell, taking steroids for paralysis caused by palsy; my body was betraying me, my career was deteriorating, my finances were disorganized, and my marriage was falling apart. As I tried to explain to my ex what happened later that evening, I realized my ex-wife thought I’d lost my mind. But it was real, and it was the darkest point of my life.

A Glimpse Beyond the Self

That night, as I stood frozen, I felt utterly alone, yet something deeper stirred—a whisper of insight that I later recognized in the philosophy of Alan Watts. He taught that we are part of the universe's dance, and our suffering often comes from clinging to a rigid idea of who we “should” be. Those entities, I now believe, were fragments of my mind—projections of my fears, my shame, and my need for control. That terrifying moment forced me to see myself not as a fixed "I" but as a process, a wave in the cosmic ocean. It was horrifying, but it was also a crack in the armor I’d built around my identity.

I didn’t sleep that night, my mind replaying the surreal encounter and the weight of my reality: I was very sick, my body weak from medication; my job at the auditing firm was slipping away; my family was drifting apart. But amidst the overthinking, a quiet voice emerged, urging me to let go of the need to “fix” everything. Watts often said, “You don’t dance to get to the other side of the floor.” I didn’t need to solve my life in one night—I just needed to take one step, to move with the moment, not against it. So, I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote, “I am thrilled and grateful that I can write.” It felt absurd, almost delusional, given my state, but it was a lifeline—a small act of trust in the process of becoming.

The Lesson: Resilience Begins with Acceptance

Psychologists call this acceptance: facing your reality, no matter how raw or chaotic, and saying, “This is where I am.” It’s not about surrender but about releasing the fight against what is. Alan Watts would frame it as surrendering to the flow of life, recognizing that the present moment is all we ever have. This is it! That night, I had to confront brutal truths: I was sick, my body failing me; I wasn’t the invincible provider I’d imagined; my career, my family, my finances—everything was uncertain. And I needed help. Admitting those truths felt like standing naked in a storm, but it was also freeing. It gave me permission to stop battling the past and start, however clumsily, building a future.

Resilience isn’t about snapping back to “normal” or ignoring pain. It’s about sitting with the discomfort—whether it’s a trembling body, a fractured mind, or a vision of debating entities—and choosing to move forward anyway. That small act of writing on a piece of paper wasn’t a cure, but it was a step, a nod to the part of me that still believed in possibility. As Watts might put it, it involved embracing the present and having faith in the appearance of the next step.

Try This: One Small Step Forward

If you’re in a dark place—or even if you’re just feeling stuck—try this: Find a quiet moment and a piece of paper. Write down one thing weighing on you—a fear, a doubt, or a loss. Be honest, even if it hurts. Then, write one small action you can take today to move forward. It could be a deep breath, a walk outside, or a single sentence in a journal. It doesn’t need to change everything—it just needs to be a gesture of trust in yourself. That step is your proof that you’re still in the dance of life, no matter how unsteady you feel.

A Story That Became a Book

That spring evening, when my body shook and my mind fractured, I didn’t know it would spark a book. But those small steps—starting with a scribbled note—led me to see my story as more than my own. It became The Morph Alchemy of the Animal, a book rooted in that night’s darkness and the journey of finding light through acceptance, writing, and trust in life’s flow. I share more about that surreal encounter in its pages, and I can’t wait for you to read it. If I could navigate through it, I am confident that you can do so as well.

What’s one small step you’re ready to take this week?

Please share it in the comments—I'm here to support you.

This post is part of a 12-week series chronicling my journey from darkness to completing my book. Follow along every Monday for new stories, insights, and tips to inspire your own path. Want to stay updated on the book launch? Join my newsletter at themorph88.com or follow me on X @TheMorph88