The first time it happened, I was standing in the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of coffee. It was early, barely light outside, the chill of the morning still clinging to the windows. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, a comforting aroma that always nudged me awake. I took a sip, feeling the immediate warmth that spread through me.
But then it was gone. Just like that, I found myself back at the cupboard, reaching for the mug again. It was like I had blinked and skipped a beat. Nothing else seemed out of place. I was tired, sure—the kind of tired that wraps around you when you haven’t slept well for weeks. I shrugged it off, blaming the exhaustion.
As the days wore on, the skips happened more often. Sometimes I’d find myself midway through washing the dishes, the soapy water running over my hands, and then suddenly, I’d be back wiping the countertop. Or I’d be on my way to the grocery store, just passing the park where kids played noisily, and then I’d be back at the front door, keys in hand, as if I’d never left. These weren’t moments lost to mere forgetfulness; they were entire swathes of time swiped from my life and replayed like a broken record.
I tried to ignore it at first. Dismissed it as just stress. After all, life hadn’t been exactly kind lately. My husband had left a year ago with little warning and ample emptiness. His absence was like a ghost in our two-bedroom apartment—a void that seemed always to remind me of how small everything felt without him. Our marriage had been quietly unraveling for years, and yet, the final snap was all too silent.
Our daughter, Maya, had taken it hard. At ten, she struggled to grasp the permanence of her father’s departure. I did my best to shield her from the cracks in our life, gamely smiling through breakfast, rehearsing reassurances through awkward phone calls with her father. But Maya was sharper than she let on, always aware of my moods, perceptive of the tension that brewed just beneath the surface of our exchanges.
Then came the night that changed everything. I was tucking Maya into bed, smoothing the blankets over her small frame as she talked about her day. As I stroked her hair, I felt a chill run down my spine, an unexplainable fear that something was terribly wrong. The moment passed, and I shook it off, planting a kiss on her forehead, promising her a day out at the zoo the following weekend. Yet not even a few heartbeats later, I was standing at the doorframe, my hand still resting on the light switch, as if I hadn’t yet stepped into her room.
It was happening again. Time folded back onto itself, and my actions were stolen, replayed, leaving me stranded in the limbo of a reality just lived.
I didn’t sleep that night, watching the ceiling shift from shadow to light as I lay motionless, thoughts spiraling. Each tremor of consciousness felt like a betrayal—a reminder that my grasp on time, on normalcy, was slipping.
When the sun rose, exhaustion was the least of my worries. I sank into my chair at work, surrounded by colleagues who chuckled over weekend plans, oblivious to the turmoil within me. The seconds marched on, dragging me with them, though I knew they might soon tear me back.
Days turned into a week, and I found myself dreading the inevitability of the backward lurches. I scoured the internet for answers, seeking refuge in online forums where I hoped to find a semblance of the strange reality I experienced. But nothing fit my symptoms—the tales of déjà vu, panic attacks, dissociative episodes—all circled wide and clear of my peculiar predicament.
My work suffered. I missed deadlines, meetings floated past me only to crash back with reminders that seemed steeped in déjà vu. My boss, helpful but worried, suggested I take some time off. I agreed, knowing that resilience was waning, and my worry grew for Maya, who had started to ask why I seemed tired all the time.
I realized then, amidst the chaos, that Maya grounded me. In her laughter and light, I found the courage to face the terrifying unknown that unravelled within me. An idea took root—it was time to be completely honest. So I told Maya, in gentle terms, that I wasn’t feeling well, that sometimes my memory liked to trick me. She listened, wide-eyed but trusting, as she always did.
The turning point came with that openness. I stopped struggling against the ebb and flow of the skips, and instead, focused on keeping the pieces of normality I could hold. Mornings were spent at the kitchen table, reading comics with Maya over cereal bowls, afternoons in the park, the air filled with laughter and the occasional scrape of a knee.
There is no perfect resolution here. The past whispers still refuse to stay in place entirely. Sometimes, I find myself back at beginnings I thought I had passed, moments once more surfacing like echoes from a half-remembered dream. But I’ve stopped fighting the cycle altogether. Acceptance hasn’t cured me, but it has freed me from pretending that I have control over this strange shifting of time and experience. I’ve learned that living in stasis isn’t living at all.
There are still important moments that defy repetition: Maya’s laughter, the way she nestles into my side, the small triumphs of her days. These moments, I play over willingly, like comforting refrains. They remind me of the life I still have, the love that remains steadfast amidst chaos. In this, I’ve found solace, and perhaps, something resembling peace. And, while we await words that might explain it all, I hold onto the now, with all its scars and beauty, embracing it as mine, unrepeatable, ineffable.
