I’m sitting here, it’s 2 AM, and honestly, I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Or maybe I do, and I just can’t quite articulate it, because that would mean admitting something truly… pathetic? I guess? So, context: I’m a stay-at-home parent, which is a whole other thing we don't need to get into right now, but suffice to say, my daily interactions are mostly with a toddler and our extremely judgmental cat. My hobby, my *thing*, is gardening. It’s what keeps me, I don't know, tethered to sanity? The soil, the sun, the literal dirt under my nails – it’s grounding, in a very non-woo-woo way. Anyway, about a week ago, I was out in the garden, transplanting some snapdragons, and I noticed this… spot. On my forearm. Small, maybe 3-4mm, kind of asymmetrical, a bit darker than my other freckles. My brain, which usually just cycles through Cocomelon songs and grocery lists, suddenly went full diagnostic mode. Immediately, I thought: melanoma. Obviously. Because that’s what humans do, right? We jump to the most catastrophic conclusion available, especially when we’re feeling a bit… adrift. It’s a classic cognitive distortion, I’m pretty sure, a kind of catastrophic thinking, which I *know* is irrational, but it still felt very, very real. So, here’s the thing. I booked three different specialist appointments. THREE. In one week. A dermatologist for Tuesday, another for a second opinion on Thursday – because what if the first one missed something, you know? – and then a plastic surgeon for Friday, just in case there’s, like, an urgent excision needed or something. My partner, bless his heart, found this all rather… excessive. He made a joke about me booking an oncologist next. And I just sort of… smiled. Because on the one hand, yes, it’s completely absurd. I’m pretty sure I heard him mutter something about "over-indexing on medical interventions" under his breath. But on the other hand, a part of me, a very, very small and shameful part, felt a weird sort of… significance? Suddenly, this little mole, this tiny dermatological anomaly, became a focal point. It was something tangible, something requiring *my* immediate attention and intervention. Not the kid’s schedule, not the state of the house, not even the failing zucchini crop. It was ME. My body. My potential mortal coil. And I don’t know why, but that felt… important. Not in a good way, I don't think. More in a way that makes me wonder if I've unconsciously externalized some internal struggle onto a skin lesion. Like, my subconscious decided that a potential terminal illness would finally give me permission to… what? Be important? Be seen? It’s not about actually wanting to be sick, obviously, but this weird sort of existential framing that comes with it. I guess what I’m trying to articulate, here in the dead of night, is that the fear of it, the absolute panic, was real. But then, layered on top, was this strange, almost perverse, sense of… purpose? Like, my life, which lately feels very much like a supporting role in someone else's narrative, suddenly had a main plot point. And that’s what I find myself grappling with. The sheer ridiculousness of it all, this tiny mole holding so much symbolic weight, and the utterly baffling discovery that a part of me, the part that probably needs to be examined far more than my forearm, found some kind of twisted solace in that. It’s not clarity I’m finding, I guess. Just more questions. And maybe a profound sense of self-alienation.