Editor’s Note: There’s a name for this thing… I just don’t know it yet.

I feel like I ran into a wall, but in slow motion.

You know the kind of crash you have in dreams - inevitable, muted, disorienting.

Creative blocks are real, but for those of us with day jobs, it’s a different kind of story. Your brain is in mild shambles, but when the clock hits 9, you’d better get your act together. No one gives a hoot that you have exciting ideas, half-formed thoughts, content waiting patiently in drafts that you can’t quite bring yourself to post. You still have meetings to attend, sentences to finish, and opinions to deliver - all while sounding astute and on top of your shit.

This is the rollercoaster my brain lives on.

So many interesting things to say, completely paralysed. Wanting to reach out to people, but absolutely not in the mood for extended conversation. A clear case of the spirit being willing, while anxiety is firmly in the driver’s seat.

I’ve heard people call this creative paralysis.

Others say it’s executive fatigue - when your ideas are sharp but your capacity to act is dulled. Some name it high-functioning burnout: still producing, still showing up, still ticking boxes, but internally running on fumes. A writer friend once described it perfectly as creative freeze in a capitalist body - and honestly, that one stung because it felt too accurate.

The other day, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and had a full-blown meltdown about how fast I’m ageing. That same evening, I caught my reflection downstairs and thought, hmm… my skin actually looks really good without makeup.

Life is unserious like that.Then my GP sent an alert: Book your full body MOT.

Bra! Immediate panic. Because the good sister has been wildly unhealthy of late. Every textbook rule about wellness? In the bin. Right next to the packet of scones, bottles of juice, and whatever discipline I was meant to have. My uncontrollable appetite gave me a side eye and gently reminded me about the leftover brioche from last night.

Still spiralling about my health, I get a debit alert from my gym. £30. Gone.

What the hell? Thirty whole pounds and I cannot remember the last time I set foot in that place.

I tell myself this must be a sign. A nudge from the universe. Get it together.

So Saturday, I wake up early, make breakfast for the family, and head to the gym like a woman on a mission. What came over me? I truly don’t know. Some unbranded adrenaline, perhaps. I went in hard. Too hard. Split my pants. Hurt my back. Left the gym humbled, injured, and deeply confused.

Now here I am: out of shape, nursing a broken back, with a brain full of clutter- yet still required to braid my daughter’s hair for school, cook enough food to last the week, show up to my day job, and somewhere between lunch breaks conjure content to keep Blanck’s numbers ticking upward.

There is a name for this thing.

It exists. And please - do not menopaulise my situation. I’m really not in the mood.