Igne natura renovatur integra

 

 

Photo by Morishikiq on Unsplash

I rarely listen to music while I work, but today I needed something upbeat to get through a list of mundane tasks. Mika’s Relax, Take It Easy came on, and I was instantly transported. I hadn’t heard the song since it was popular back in 2009, and suddenly I was flooded with memories.

Back then, I was in my second year of an Illustration degree and beginning to plan my final project. Around the same time, I booked a solo trip to Paris. I’d been before with a close friend, but this time I wanted to experience the city on my own terms—to absorb it slowly, fully. Mika’s song became my unofficial soundtrack. It played constantly as I wandered the city. To this day, when I think of that trip, it comes with that song echoing in the background.

Paris, je t'aime

My hotel was right near the Seine, across from the Louvre—an ideal location. I could walk everywhere, the room was comfortable, and the weather was perfect. Unfortunately, those ideal conditions were soon interrupted by the arrival of my period—accompanied by some of the worst cramps I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure if it was the flight or sheer exhaustion, but I spent the first morning in bed, in pain, listening to the sounds of laughter and footsteps from the street below. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and I was stuck. Eventually, I downed a handful of ibuprofen and told myself to push through. Paris was calling—and I had to answer.

Despite feeling like a soggy dishrag, I made it to the Musée d'Orsay and took dozens of photos of its beautiful skylight. I visited the Centre Pompidou for an Alexander Calder exhibition that left me inspired and determined. I ended the day at a small café near the hotel, sipping a glass of wine and letting the day wash over me. I was exhausted but proud. Even in pain, I’d made it through and seen so much. That night, I fell asleep watching Dr. No dubbed in French on the hotel TV.

The second day was worse. I forced myself out of bed and put on the most comfortable outfit I had—a light blue H&M dress that would become my unofficial “cramp companion” for years. I had packed stylish dresses and heels, but reality had other plans. Since I’d managed to visit most museums the day before, I decided to take it slow and wander the streets. The Champs-Élysées was glowing in soft autumn light, the trees bursting with kaleidoscopic colour. But halfway back to the hotel, the pain hit hard. I was dizzy, close to fainting. I found a bench and sat down, trying to stay upright. To distract myself, I put on my headphones—and once again, Relax, Take It Easy played.

That moment is burned into my memory. The scent of fallen leaves, strangers rushing past in the middle of a weekday, a small patch of grass with flowers in bloom. I focused on anything to keep from passing out—my art project, the rhythm of the song, the people around me. I had no painkillers and probably looked ghostly pale. I kept looping the song, willing the lyrics to help me calm down. Slowly, the colour returned to my cheeks, and I managed to walk back to the hotel. The worst had passed. That evening, I had another quiet dinner at the café. The waiters frowned at my broken French but were kind enough. I was glad to be somewhere familiar. I stayed until night fell. Tomorrow I had to leave. Despite everything, I felt sad to go.

Relax, Take It Easy

I often return to this memory when trying to describe what living with depression and anxiety feels like. It’s like those unbearable cramps. The world outside is beautiful—people laughing, music playing—but you’re stuck in your own body, unable to move freely through it. You take the medication, you do the things you’re supposed to do, and you survive the day. Sometimes the fear, doubt, and sadness are so overwhelming you think you might collapse. But you hold on. You try to "think it away" because there’s no other choice.

I’ve often wondered what more I could have done in Paris if I hadn’t been in pain. What more I could have achieved in life if I weren’t constantly battling my own mind. But then I realise: maybe the reason I managed to push through that day was precisely because I was so used to internal struggle. Compared to anxiety and depression, physical pain sometimes felt easier to manage.

I’d like to say the pain I felt that day in Paris was exaggerated—or that my inner turmoil isn’t as bad as I make it out to be. But I can’t. Both are real. Both are hard. And both have shaped who I am.