Anytime I’ve started an essay, I’ve always started from the middle. I let my voice write itself. No plan, no outline, just thoughts on the page with no filter. It’s always been my go-to, but there is never a plan, because the second there is a plan, creativity stalls. Start in the middle, write the end, then circle back to the intro… So that’s where I’ll start with this: pen to paper, or finger to keys. No plan.
My brain has never followed the “normal” pathways when it comes to well… anything.
I begin where the spark lives, not at the beginning and not at the end. I would start to write wherever I found it most interesting. Anything that sparked my attention would form a thought. Then once the first thought was written, the rest poured out. You know those meticulous essay planning skills I learned in school; the outlines, the thought bubbles, the word associations… All of those little tricks to help organize your thoughts never worked for me. The more I tried to control the way my essay would go, the less fun it became. And let’s be real, writing essays for school is never fun. While my essays in school normally ended up with average results, the points off were normally because I would turn the essay in late.
Outside of school, I found a place where the process was fun: online role-play. We wrote stories together as our characters. It was my release and my safe escape. I used the same start in the middle approach there, too.
So here I am, writing again. I’ve talked for years about writing a book, but I’ve always said I’m not a big-picture person. I don’t easily see the end or the final project. That’s part of why a blog makes sense; it lets me finish thoughts as they arrive. If I don’t follow a thought to its end, it disappears. If I don’t capture it while it’s happening, it’s gone. Which is also why I should probably go back to a paper planner instead of relying on phone reminders — but there I go, getting distracted again. Fragments. Bits and pieces. The only way to reach the end is to keep writing.
It’s hard to stay focused for long these days, but I’m making an effort to write. So today I‘ll start by telling you a bit about myself. You can call me M. Drella or M. for short. I was born female in 1990, and still identify that way today. I’m pansexual and happily married to my best friend. I am diagnosed with several mental illnesses: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Panic Disorder, Narcolepsy, Bipolar II Disorder, and ADHD, then pretty much all of the other anxieties too… I’ve also had a few cardiac ablations and was born with a hole in my heart. As far as other family members, I have one dog, one cat, and four horses. At work I’m responsible for 25–30 horses at any given time. I help my family run a world-class boarding facility. I’ve worked in Olympic eventing and Grand Prix dressage barns, owned my own farm, competed through Preliminary in eventing and Intermediaire II in dressage, and I teach lessons.
It’s safe to say my life revolves around horses. Or it did, until very recently…
In 2019, my health forced me to take a step back. Fainting spells. Dizziness. A heart rate that could jump up to the 200s just walking across the house, when my resting rate lived in the low 60s. I had to pause; even though pausing goes against everything I’ve ever known. And then came the question I’d spent my whole life avoiding: Who am I if I can’t ride? Without the passion I’ve given everything to?
I’m still figuring that out. I’m falling back on the only other passion I’ve always had: writing.
Anxiety has always been there, stirring beneath the surface. When I couldn’t ride, when I didn’t want to ride, everything I’d stuffed down got louder. So this is a story of my fragments of sanity: flashes of clarity I catch now and then before I slip back into the dark holes I can dig for myself. I’ll write when I can. I’ll share what I know in the hope that my mess might make someone else feel a little less alone.
I plan to write stories about my struggles with mental illness, the triumphs and heartbreak that is horseback riding, and my struggles with an invisible illness that no one can figure out.
During an inpatient stay, something shifted. I realized that I am not alone. It changed everything. I had felt so isolated my entire life, and to finally realize that I was not alone, that people from all walks of life had similar experiences or feelings. That was a game-changer for the way I thought. I wouldn’t wish mental illness on anyone, but the stigma makes the climb so much steeper. If these fragments, sometimes sanity, sometimes not, can offer even one person comfort or companionship on their road back to themselves, then this will have been worth writing.
I’ll start in the middle. You’re welcome to join me there.
— M.
Publication note Originally on Medium ([October 2025]). This is the canonical version.