I Think I’m Afraid of the Dark Now

Fuck. I think I’m afraid of the dark now.

Not the way you’d expect. Not when I’m trying to sleep. That part’s fine … almost too fine. By seven in the evening my eyes get heavy, and by eight I’m usually in bed. Sure, I’ll wake up between eleven and one, stare at the ceiling for a while, wrestle with sleep like an old adversary, but it’s not fear of darkness that does that.

This is different.

Today I met a colleague for coffee in the late afternoon. She’s going through a rough patch at work, and I wanted to sit with her for a bit to remind her that toxic environments don’t last forever, even when they feel all-consuming.

I told her about a time when I was squarely in HR’s crosshairs. A cluster of complaints, all baseless, all designed to get me gone because I had the audacity to call out nonproductivity. If you’re getting paid to do a job and consistently don’t do it, yeah, I’m going to say something. At the time I had no authority, no influence, and all the fallout landed in my lap. My days were loaded. My patience was gone. I hated showing up to work.

Toxic environments do that. When you don’t trust anyone, even a strong work ethic can’t save you.

But I also told her what happened when that environment changed, how quickly I bloomed once the toxicity lifted. How suddenly breathing didn’t feel like work anymore. I could see something ease in her shoulders as we talked, and I hope that was relief. If I can help someone through a hard stretch, I will. That’s just who the fuck I am.

By the time we wrapped up, it was late, almost 5:30. The sun was sinking fast, and as I geared up to ride home, it hit me: I’d be riding in the dark.

At first, my concern was practical. Cold. When the sun drops behind the mountains, northern New Mexico doesn’t fuck around. I swapped my shaded goggles for clear, zipped my jacket all the way up, cursed into the wind, whispered a quiet prayer for a safe ride, fired up the engine, and lifted the kickstand.

By the time I left Los Alamos, the sun was nearly gone. The mountains accelerated the night, and within minutes, darkness swallowed the day. Red brake lights. White headlights. A ribbon of traffic winding through the valley toward Santa Fe.

And that’s when it hit.

As soon as the sun disappeared, I got nervous.

Not just nervous, scared.

I didn’t trust that drivers could see me. Didn’t trust they’d stop when traffic stopped. Didn’t trust they’d hold their lane when I passed.

Somewhere along the way, a rock came flying up and smashed into my left index finger at highway speed. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t loosen my grip, not for a second. I was too busy being terrified that someone was going to hit me.

And this wasn’t just my body remembering. This was my mind.

I don’t remember the accident itself. I don’t remember that day at all. But I do remember waking up in the hospital. Hurt. Disoriented. Terrified. Trying to understand where I was and how I got there after being hit by a car in the dark.

Those memories surged forward as I rode.

When I finally reached Santa Fe, I pulled into the first grocery store I saw, partly for dinner, mostly to calm my nerves. But the moment I left the parking lot and merged back into traffic, crossing the city in full darkness, the fear settled back in like it had been waiting.

When I finally got home, I was overwhelmed with relief. Relief to be off the dark roads. Relief to be away from distracted drivers piloting two-ton machines like they were toys.

Now I’m sitting here wondering how I’m supposed to get past this.

The fear is clearly rooted in the accident. In that moment when headlights decided I didn’t exist and smashed into me, nearly ending my life. I don’t know how you reason your way out of that. I don’t know how you tell your nervous system it’s safe again.

I just know that tonight, the dark feels different.

And I don’t yet know what to do about it.