I’m on a second day of full rest. Which sounds dramatic. But it’s because I left my house on Monday.

This isn’t a story about a bad driver.
Or a death threat.
Or even the adrenaline crash that followed.

Though it does contains all of those things.

It’s about what happens after the body decides it was almost killed.
It’s about a nervous system that doesn’t care whether contact was made.

It’s about trauma response, not a busy day.

I planned Monday carefully. Coffee on the couch with one of my besties. Tea with another darling friend. A sync-up with my daughter. Quiet lovely time to quiet lovely time to quiet lovely time. I even built in a couple hours of writing at a favorite coffee shop.

After that, a short walk with my kid to grab a few groceries in case Portland gets a dusting of snow and the whole city loses its mind.

On the way back, we were at a four-way intersection waiting for the blinking orange hand to disappear and the little white walking guy to show up. When he did, we stepped into the crosswalk. I checked the lanes. I always do. No one pushing the red. No one turning into us.

Until a four-door sedan came fast down the cross street and went for the turn.

She hadn’t been at the stop when we entered the crosswalk. And then suddenly she was there. Turning directly into us. My daughter had cleared the lane. I hadn’t. The car stopped inches from me.

I froze.

The driver began yelling at me to move. Waving her hand like I was the inconvenience.

For reasons I still don’t understand, I tried to tell her we had the right of way. I even looked back at the crossing signal to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. My daughter’s face was guarded. She wanted out of the street.

Before the explanation could fully form, the driver said, very clearly:

“Bitch I will fucking kill you.”

I don’t remember exactly how we cleared the intersection. I remember shouting something not meant for polite society. I remember checking on my kid. I remember the rest of the walk happening in a kind of haze.

Adrenaline burned through me. My muscles locked down. My head rang. All I wanted was somewhere dark and quiet.

My brain ran triage. Text my partner. Breathe. Keep walking. Check on child who is an adult but still my child. She tried to take the grocery bags from me so I was dealing with less.

I was furious. The kind of furious that tingles in your hands. I wanted to bare my teeth. To make myself bigger. To tear something apart just to discharge it.

Instead, I kept walking.

That night was quiet. I went to bed thinking maybe I had inflated it. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

In the morning my entire body felt like I had, in fact, been hit by that car.

Nothing touched me.

And still my body behaves as if it did.

My neck and jaw clenched. My hips locked. My hands swollen. My nervous system lit up like it was still standing in the street. As if the threat hadn’t passed. As if I were still inches from impact.

This is the part no one sees.

The day after.

And the day after that.

When your body declares war over something that technically didn’t happen. When your muscles brace against an impact that never came. When the cost of a single moment ripples outward for days.

So I am in bed. Again.
Not because I had coffee. It was decaf
Not because I saw friends.
Not because I overbooked myself.

Because my body does not distinguish between almost and impact.

And the only thing I can do now is make myself soft.

Make myself still.
Wind myself down.
Again.
And again.