Today my health watch vibrated and interrupted my commute.
Heart rate alert:
My BPM had been over 120 for the past ten minutes.
I was standing on a subway car.
Not running.
Not rushing.
Not panicking.
I didn’t feel any different.
That’s what unsettled me.
I’ve always trusted my own internal dashboard. If something was wrong, I assumed I’d know. Pain announces itself. Exhaustion drags. Fear makes noise. But this? This was silent. My body was doing something unusual without sending me a memo.
I stood there holding a pole, watching the city blur by underground, wondering how often my body has been waving a flag I never learned how to see.
I’ve said “I’m fine” for most of my adult life.
Not as a lie —as a reflex.
Fine meant functioning.
Fine meant showing up.
Fine meant the trains still ran on time.
But stress doesn’t always arrive with drama. Sometimes it shows up as efficiency. As adaptation. As a nervous system quietly redlining while you keep your posture straight and your calendar full.
The watch didn’t accuse me of anything. It didn’t say burnout. It didn’t say panic. It just stated a fact: something inside me was working harder than it needed to.
And that’s the part that lingers.
If I can’t feel my own heart racing
How do I know when I’m stressed?
How do I know when I’m burning out?
How long have I been asking my body to compensate without checking the cost?
Maybe awareness doesn’t always start with emotion.
Maybe sometimes it starts with data.
Or a vibration on your wrist.
Or a quiet question you can’t un-ask once it appears.
I got off at my stop.
My heart rate eventually came down.
But the question stayed with me.