It’s Not Depression, It’s Decompression

For most of my life, “staying in” was something you did when you were sick, tired, or too broke to join your friends. It wasn’t an identity. It wasn’t a preference. It definitely wasn’t… bliss.

But somewhere between fear-driven survival mode and where I am now, a quiet shift happened. These days, my idea of an ideal evening involves my laptop, a warm drink, ambient light, and two cats who believe personal space is a myth. I’m not hiding from life; I’m exhaling.

This isn’t depression. It’s decompression.

The Before: Fearful, Frantic, Always One Step Ahead

Before this quiet season, “inside” didn’t feel safe. It felt like being trapped with my thoughts. I was constantly scanning for danger, mentally rehearsing conversations, and trying to control what came next. If I stayed still too long, fear would surge up like an alarm I couldn’t switch off.

Going out gave me structure. It let me avoid my own internal chaos. Crowded places didn’t exactly calm me, but they gave me something else to focus on. The idea of voluntarily spending a weekend at home? That would have felt like willingly sitting in the eye of a storm.

I’d say yes to plans automatically. I’d push myself into situations even when my body screamed no.

Back then, silence didn’t feel like peace, it felt like waiting for impact.

The After: Craving Quiet

Fast forward to now. My nervous system isn’t frantically looking for exits anymore. It’s not fully “fixed” whatever that means, but it’s different. The fear that once made me restless has thinned into something else: a pull inward.

I still feel moments of eagerness. I like the idea of going out, traveling, exploring. But when the opportunity comes, there’s this other voice, calm, steady, almost amused, that says,

“Or… we could just stay here.”

Here is quiet. Here is manageable. Here is where I can hear myself think without shouting over life’s background noise. I spend long stretches at my laptop, working, creating, or just existing. I’m not isolating in despair. I’m choosing stillness because it fits the stage I’m in.

My cats seem to agree. They stretch out next to me, unbothered by the fact that we’ve had the same view all day. Their version of nightlife is knocking pens off the desk at 2 a.m. Mine is editing paragraphs until I forget what time it is.

Why This Isn’t Depression

There’s a strange guilt that creeps in when you choose solitude. Society sells the idea that “living” means constantly going places, saying yes, posting evidence of how social and adventurous you are. Choosing home over the world can look, from the outside, like retreat.

For me, it’s not retreat. It’s nervous system decompression.

After long stretches of hypervigilance, your body doesn’t crave stimulation. It craves predictability. It wants walls that don’t surprise it, sounds it can map, routines that feel like warm blankets. Quiet isn’t avoidance, it’s integration.

Psychoeducation time: prolonged stress keeps the autonomic nervous system locked in survival states, fight, flight, or freeze. When safety finally registers, the parasympathetic system (rest-and-digest) slowly comes back online. That shift often doesn’t feel like joy at first. It feels like a long exhale.

That exhale can look, from the outside, like “not wanting to do anything.” But it’s not the nothingness of depression. It’s the fullness of stillness.

The Laptop Era

One of the strangest parts of this season is how genuinely content I am working quietly. I used to think productivity had to involve movement, commuting, coffee shops, other people. Now, I build worlds from the soft glow of my screen, cats intermittently walking across the keyboard like unpaid editors.

I get lost in deep work. I pause for tea. I watch sunlight shift through the window like it’s a show with slow plot twists. There’s a rhythm to it: steady, muted, mine.

No adrenaline. No dread. Just a quiet hum that, ironically, makes me more creative than I’ve been in years.

But Wait, Isn’t This Just Introversion?

Not quite. I was always capable of socializing, even enjoyed it in bursts. What changed isn’t my personality, it’s my baseline.

When your nervous system has been through prolonged fear, the social world can feel like a sensory overload factory. Even “good” stimulation, travel, parties, spontaneous plans, can be taxing. So you gravitate toward spaces that don’t demand constant regulation.

Introversion is a preference. Decompression is a biological process.

Common Signs You’re in a Decompression Phase

(aka, it’s not “laziness,” it’s recalibration)

• You crave stillness even when you’re not sad.

• Going out feels “too loud,” not frightening, just… unnecessary.

• You find deep satisfaction in simple, repetitive routines.

• You stop explaining why you don’t want to make plans.

• You spend more time with animals, books, or quiet work than people — and it feels good.

• You catch yourself smiling at the idea of canceled plans.

If that list sounds familiar, welcome to the club. There’s no membership fee, but comfy clothes are mandatory.

The Subtle Danger (and How I Avoid It)

Decompression can quietly slip into avoidance if left unchecked. I’ve noticed this in myself. Some days, the line between “peaceful solitude” and “avoiding discomfort” gets blurry.

The trick isn’t to force yourself back into old patterns. It’s to keep a soft eye on why you’re saying no. If it’s because outside feels unsafe, that’s fear. If it’s because you genuinely prefer the quiet right now, that’s decompression.

I keep little rituals to keep me anchored: walks, phone calls with one or two trusted people, opening the windows even if I’m staying in. Tiny gestures that remind my system the world is still there, waiting, without demanding I rejoin the chaos immediately.

What Helped Me Embrace This Season

• Dropping the guilt. I stopped comparing my current quiet to my old, more “active” life. Seasons change.

• Naming it. Calling it “decompression” instead of “isolation” reframed everything. It’s not a problem to fix; it’s a stage to respect.

• Leaning into comfort. Cats, blankets, good tea, silence. Not as a barricade, as a balm.

• Honoring the work I’m doing quietly. Healing doesn’t always look like breakthroughs. Sometimes it’s just showing up at your laptop day after day and feeling your nervous system settle.

If this resonates, if you’ve been sitting in your own quiet lately, laptop glowing, cats judging, and wondering if it means something’s wrong, it doesn’t. You might just be in your decompression era.

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