Garage Therapy

Welcome to the Mystic Moon Fort. That’s what I’m calling it, anyway. It’s a garage-turned-sanctuary where fairy lights and strategically stapled bedsheets hold up not just the ceiling, but my fragile grip on sanity. If you had told me a few years ago that at thirty-five I’d be living in a space better suited for a family of raccoons than a functioning adult, I would have laughed. Then I probably would have cried into a spreadsheet.

Yet, here we are.

This is the inaugural entry for my podcast, a deeply personal project born out of the absolute wreckage of my life. It’s shaped by mental health struggles, medication trial-and-error that felt straight out of a medieval torture manual, severe burnout, and the stubborn, slightly unhinged pursuit of meaning amid chaos.

If you’re looking for a neat, ten-step blueprint on how to completely fix your life by waking up at 4:00 AM and drinking lemon water, you’re in the wrong place. But if you want a raw, sarcastic, and painfully honest look at what it means to start over—long before you actually feel ready—pull up a folding chair. Let's talk about it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Table of Contents

• Why We Create: Seeing Ourselves, Not Just Being Seen

• The Garage as Metaphor: Making a Home in the Mess

• Burnout: The Gray Soup and the Art of Surviving It

• The Medication Maze: SSRIs, Side Effects, and Self-Advocacy

• Rebuilding at 35: Embracing the Messy Middle

• Neurodivergence, Masking, and the Cost of Perfectionism

• The Tarot Tent: The Hermit’s Lantern and the Power of Small Steps

• Why We Create: Seeing Ourselves, Not Just Being Seen

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“For me, creating isn’t about being seen by others; it’s about finally seeing myself.”

Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate: creativity isn’t always about building an empire or going viral. Sometimes, it’s just about keeping the lights on in your brain.

For a long time, I thought making things required a grand purpose. Turns out, my creative process is just a flotation device. It’s a way to process emotions I’m too tired to speak, untangle my identity, and carve out a tiny bubble of safety in a world that routinely feels like a trash fire.

How to steal this approach for yourself:

Create for the audience of one. Whether it’s journaling, painting, recording a weird podcast in a garage, or stapling sheets to a concrete wall, let your art be a mirror. Ask yourself: What do I actually need to understand about myself today?

Drop the performance. Not every thought needs to be monetized, validated, or polished. Sometimes, the mere act of getting the mess out of your head and onto a page is the victory.

The Garage as Metaphor: Making a Home in the Mess

Living in a garage at thirty-five was definitely not on the vision board. But when your life completely implodes—when you’re priced out, family dynamics are maxed out, and your choices boil down to the streets or a spider-infested concrete box—you adapt.

The Mystic Moon Fort didn't start out magical. It started as a glorified dust-bunny metropolis with a severe humidity problem. Turning it into a home took weeks of sweeping, crying, and aggressively hanging fairy lights to distract from the exposed insulation.

The takeaway? Transformation is rarely aesthetic at first; it’s sweaty and undignified. Stapling those sheets to the ceiling wasn't just about privacy from the neighbors; it was about building physical boundaries for a psyche that felt entirely unmoored.

Claim your space, however sad it looks right now. Even if it’s just a corner of a room or a literal garage, make it yours. Toss down a rug. Plug in a lamp.

Stop waiting for "perfect" conditions to heal. You don't need a Pinterest-worthy home to start putting your life back together. Start in the dirt.

Burnout: The Gray Soup and the Art of Surviving It

“When you burn out this hard, time blurs into a gray soup of therapy appointments and crying in the driveway.”

Let's talk about burnout, because society treats it like a badge of honor until your nervous system literally pulls the emergency brake. Burnout isn't just "being tired." It’s a total system shutdown—a soul-level exhaustion where staring at a simple email feels like trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphics.

For me, time dissolved into a gray soup of staring at ceilings, going to therapy, and wondering if I’d ever feel like a functioning human being again. Four years after walking away from my old life, I’m still picking up the pieces.

How to navigate the soup:

Realize it’s not laziness. It’s a physiological response to chronic, unsustainable stress. Your body didn't quit on you; it protected you from running yourself into an early grave.

Redefine productivity. If your biggest achievement today was figuring out how to lie on a cheap mattress without tweaking your back, count it. That’s a win.

Accept life rafts. I only stumbled onto mental health leave because a boss basically forced it on me. If someone hands you a lifeline, for the love of god, grab it.

The Medication Maze: SSRIs, Side Effects, and Self-Advocacy

“Did the antidepressants work? I honestly don’t know.”

Ah, the pharmaceutical roulette wheel. If you’ve ever cycled through SSRIs and SNRIs (sertraline, venlafaxine, duloxetine), you know the absolute wild ride it is.

My journey through the medication maze was... memorable. We’re talking about chemical throat burns from sertraline, accidental hypomania from venlafaxine that turned a terrified introvert into a feral extrovert, and full-body electric zaps when missing a dose of duloxetine. Did they work? Honestly, half the time I couldn't tell if I was getting better or just experiencing a brand-new side effect.

What I wish someone had told me:

Side effects are no joke. Advocate for yourself like your life depends on it—because your quality of life definitely does. If a drug makes you feel like an alien wearing your skin, tell your doctor.

Keep a symptom log. Your psychiatrist gets fifteen minutes with you every few months. Write down your moods, your physical symptoms, and your weird brain zaps so you don't just sit there nodding blankly.

Be agonizingly patient. Adjusting your brain chemistry is like trying to fix the plumbing on a submarine while it’s underwater. It takes time, and it’s going to get messy.

Rebuilding at 35: Embracing the Messy Middle

There is a very specific, agonizing brand of humiliation that comes with starting completely over in your mid-thirties. All your peers seem to be buying houses, getting promoted, or raising kids, and you're over here taping blankets to garage walls.

The myth of the heroic "comeback" is a lie. Real rebuilding doesn't happen in a snappy montage with an upbeat soundtrack. It’s slow, it’s deeply awkward, and it’s punctuated by a lot of false starts.

Ditch the life overhaul. Stop trying to fix everything by Monday. Focus on micro-goals. Can you drink a glass of water today? Great.

Grieve the old version of you. You have to mourn the life you thought you’d have so you can actually make room for the weird, unexpected path you’re currently on.

Neurodivergence, Masking, and the Cost of Perfectionism

“I want to explore burnout—what it is, life after it, how long it lasts, and how to make it less miserable. I’ll also talk about neurodivergence, including autism, self-diagnosis, late diagnosis, misdiagnosis, and overlaps with conditions like borderline personality disorder.”

a massive chunk of my burnout came from a lifetime of relentless masking. Trying to contort my neurodivergent brain into a neurotypical shape for decades is a fantastic way to run your operating system straight into the ground.

Perfectionism isn't high standards; it’s a trauma response. It’s a desperate attempt to stay safe by never giving anyone a reason to reject you.

Unlearn the mask. Finding spaces where you can drop the act—even for five minutes—is crucial.

Find your weirdos. Whether online or in a literal garage, finding people who don't blink twice at your quirks is healing in ways therapy alone can't touch.

The Tarot Tent: The Hermit’s Lantern and the Power of Small Steps

Every good journey needs a ritual, and for us, that means closing out with a tarot card reflection.

Today’s card is The Hermit.

If you know the card, you know it pictures an old figure holding up a single lantern in the dark. That lantern doesn't illuminate the whole mountain; it only casts enough light to see the very next step.

And honestly? That’s all any of us in the garage are doing right now. We aren't figuring out the next five years. We aren't curing all our trauma before breakfast. We are just holding up a tiny, flickering light, looking down at our feet, and taking one ridiculously small, brave step into the dark.

You've got this. Or, at the very least, you've got a place to sit while you figure it out.

Welcome to the Fort.