I felt like I’d hit rock bottom, then another trap door opened, and I plunged further into despair. I had lost so many things that were important to me. It broke me. A sense of hopelessness enveloped me, making it feel as though my body was trying to give up entirely. I found myself overwhelmed by waves of uncontrollable crying triggered by the smallest of things, a quiet moment or a seemingly innocent memory. I had taken my losses so personally, believing that everything that happened was my fault. Each incident felt like a reflection of my inadequacy, delivering blow after blow to my self-worth.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Exhaustion seeped into every fibre of my being, leaving me physically sick and emotionally drained. A heavy fog settled in my mind. What on earth was happening to me? It felt like everything I had worked for had been tossed aside, like I was screaming into a void. My dreams drifted further away, becoming nothing more than a distant memory. After struggling for so long, I had lost what had once given my life purpose.
The severity of my situation finally pushed me to seek help. I met my current therapist, a remarkable woman who embodies kindness and strength. I have immense respect for her and, because of that, deeply trust her insights and guidance. She helped me untangle the narrative I had created—the one where every loss was my fault. She showed me that much of what had happened was outside my control and that the actions of others reflected them, not me.
In the midst of it, I was incapable of simply being alone with my thoughts. The loneliness drove me to make reckless, impulsive decisions—anything to fill the void inside me. I was terrified of confronting myself. And yet, with the support of my friends, I gradually learned to embrace myself and find peace in my own company. Through them, I realised I was never truly alone. Through them, I could listen to my heart and become more authentic. Their comfort became a refuge amidst the chaos.
Together, we celebrated the little joys of life: coffee dates, spontaneous dinners, dancing at parties, sunbathing at the park, film nights, sweet treats, random adventures, and everything in between. Each experience taught me a lesson about love, one which I owe entirely to my friends.
At the same time, I began to reconsider what refuge truly meant. My relationship with my family has been marked by differences that often make it difficult for me to feel close. Yet, when push comes to shove, I realise that I do have refuge in them. It may not always be apparent, but in times of need, they are consistently there, ready to support me. It’s a matter of me reaching out. To be fair, emerging as an adult has come with exploring and redefining relationships with my family—learning to see them not just as the people who raised me, but as individuals with their own complexities, their own ways of showing love.
Slowly, I started noticing signs of improvement. Small things, insignificant to anyone else but monumental to me. I could listen to music again. I could eat three full meals in a day. I could sleep through the night without waking up. And as time passed, progress took new forms—building confidence in myself, learning to let go, trusting that I was enough.
Time, in its own way, is a healer—not because it mends wounds, but because it makes memories more distant, their intensity dulling with each passing day. But healing itself isn’t passive. It requires constant, active work.
The unravelling of my mental health was so traumatic that I lost my period for months. When it finally returned, it felt like a quiet but undeniable sign of healing—a reminder that my body was recovering, that I was still here. To honour her, I made a promise to myself: every time I get my period, I buy myself flowers. A small but meaningful celebration of my health, of the progress I’ve made, of the body that carried me through.
Slowly but steadily, I found my way back to myself. I rediscovered my sensitivity—something I’m proud to have reclaimed after years of detachment. I realised I love meeting new people and experiencing life. I enjoy going out more than ever before. Ultimately, I found that contrary to what everyone believes of me, I am actually quite the opposite. Because I define myself. It’s scary to feel lost, but there is also freedom in it. I have the space to reinvent myself every day. I am questioning everything I ever knew myself to be, and with each passing day, I learn what it means to be me.
Still, sometimes, I let the existential dread creep in and find myself confronting my thoughts. Why can’t I be okay alone? I often seek love from those who aren’t ready to offer it to me. Am I simply allowing myself to be controlled by the fear of being alone? These questions linger in the quiet moments, reminding me that healing is not linear and that some wounds reopen before they fully close. I will bear those scars for the rest of my life, each one a lesson to remember.
Rebuilding myself wasn’t about grand gestures or instant transformation. It was about the small things—the ones that made me feel human again. My therapist called it a self-care manual: a hot cup of coffee or tea, a sweet treat, dinner with friends, a night out. A good book that lets me escape for a while. Cooking for loved ones, finding comfort in nourishing them the way I wish to be nourished. Doing my makeup, not for anyone else, but for myself—because some days, it feels good to look in the mirror and recognise the person staring back. Discovering new music, letting the right song find me at the right moment. Developing my style, shaping an identity that finally feels like my own.
And now, for the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin. Little by little, these moments pieced me back together.
Looking back on the past, I can now see the silver linings amidst the turmoil. Don’t get me wrong—it was a horrible time, filled with struggles I wish my past self never had to go through. She didn’t deserve that, and neither did I. But it wasn’t despite the pain that I changed—it was because of it. Pain forced me to learn, to grow, to confront everything I had buried inside.
Deep down, I knew I would die if I stayed where I was. I could choose to let myself rot, or I could choose to grow. It’s not a simple choice. It’s hard to trust in a future you can’t yet see. I didn’t have faith in anything back then; simply, I hoped to survive each day, knowing that if today wasn’t like day zero, then it was, in fact, getting better.
I am sharing my breakdown with you, the reader, because I want you to know that it’s okay to shatter and fall to pieces.It’s okay to not have everything figured out. Sometimes, life will strip you down to nothing, leaving you no choice but to rebuild from the ground up. It’s terrifying, but there is also something profoundly freeing about it. You get to decide who you become. You get to choose what you hold onto and what you leave behind.
I won’t pretend that I have it all together now. There are still moments when the weight of uncertainty settles in when I feel like I’m drifting without direction. But I no longer see that as a failure. I’ve learned that being lost doesn’t mean I’m broken.
I used to believe that healing meant returning to who I once was, but I’ve realised that’s not the case. Healing is becoming someone new. Someone softer, stronger, wiser. Someone who carries their past with grace and is no longer defined by it.
So, if someone were to ask me how I am, I would tell them this:
I’m a little lost with what I want in life.
But I’m okay.
And for now, that’s enough.
I felt like I’d hit rock bottom, then another trap door opened, and I plunged further into despair. I had lost so many things that were important to me. It broke me. A sense of hopelessness enveloped me, making it feel as though my body was trying to give up entirely. I found myself overwhelmed by waves of uncontrollable crying triggered by the smallest of things, a quiet moment or a seemingly innocent memory. I had taken my losses so personally, believing that everything that happened was my fault. Each incident felt like a reflection of my inadequacy, delivering blow after blow to my self-worth.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Exhaustion seeped into every fibre of my being, leaving me physically sick and emotionally drained. A heavy fog settled in my mind. What on earth was happening to me? It felt like everything I had worked for had been tossed aside, like I was screaming into a void. My dreams drifted further away, becoming nothing more than a distant memory. After struggling for so long, I had lost what had once given my life purpose.
The severity of my situation finally pushed me to seek help. I met my current therapist, a remarkable woman who embodies kindness and strength. I have immense respect for her and, because of that, deeply trust her insights and guidance. She helped me untangle the narrative I had created—the one where every loss was my fault. She showed me that much of what had happened was outside my control and that the actions of others reflected them, not me.
In the midst of it, I was incapable of simply being alone with my thoughts. The loneliness drove me to make reckless, impulsive decisions—anything to fill the void inside me. I was terrified of confronting myself. And yet, with the support of my friends, I gradually learned to embrace myself and find peace in my own company. Through them, I realised I was never truly alone. Through them, I could listen to my heart and become more authentic. Their comfort became a refuge amidst the chaos.
Together, we celebrated the little joys of life: coffee dates, spontaneous dinners, dancing at parties, sunbathing at the park, film nights, sweet treats, random adventures, and everything in between. Each experience taught me a lesson about love, one which I owe entirely to my friends.
At the same time, I began to reconsider what refuge truly meant. My relationship with my family has been marked by differences that often make it difficult for me to feel close. Yet, when push comes to shove, I realise that I do have refuge in them. It may not always be apparent, but in times of need, they are consistently there, ready to support me. It’s a matter of me reaching out. To be fair, emerging as an adult has come with exploring and redefining relationships with my family—learning to see them not just as the people who raised me, but as individuals with their own complexities, their own ways of showing love.
Slowly, I started noticing signs of improvement. Small things, insignificant to anyone else but monumental to me. I could listen to music again. I could eat three full meals in a day. I could sleep through the night without waking up. And as time passed, progress took new forms—building confidence in myself, learning to let go, trusting that I was enough.
Time, in its own way, is a healer—not because it mends wounds, but because it makes memories more distant, their intensity dulling with each passing day. But healing itself isn’t passive. It requires constant, active work.
The unravelling of my mental health was so traumatic that I lost my period for months. When it finally returned, it felt like a quiet but undeniable sign of healing—a reminder that my body was recovering, that I was still here. To honour her, I made a promise to myself: every time I get my period, I buy myself flowers. A small but meaningful celebration of my health, of the progress I’ve made, of the body that carried me through.
Slowly but steadily, I found my way back to myself. I rediscovered my sensitivity—something I’m proud to have reclaimed after years of detachment. I realised I love meeting new people and experiencing life. I enjoy going out more than ever before. Ultimately, I found that contrary to what everyone believes of me, I am actually quite the opposite. Because I define myself. It’s scary to feel lost, but there is also freedom in it. I have the space to reinvent myself every day. I am questioning everything I ever knew myself to be, and with each passing day, I learn what it means to be me.
Still, sometimes, I let the existential dread creep in and find myself confronting my thoughts. Why can’t I be okay alone? I often seek love from those who aren’t ready to offer it to me. Am I simply allowing myself to be controlled by the fear of being alone? These questions linger in the quiet moments, reminding me that healing is not linear and that some wounds reopen before they fully close. I will bear those scars for the rest of my life, each one a lesson to remember.
Rebuilding myself wasn’t about grand gestures or instant transformation. It was about the small things—the ones that made me feel human again. My therapist called it a self-care manual: a hot cup of coffee or tea, a sweet treat, dinner with friends, a night out. A good book that lets me escape for a while. Cooking for loved ones, finding comfort in nourishing them the way I wish to be nourished. Doing my makeup, not for anyone else, but for myself—because some days, it feels good to look in the mirror and recognise the person staring back. Discovering new music, letting the right song find me at the right moment. Developing my style, shaping an identity that finally feels like my own.
And now, for the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin. Little by little, these moments pieced me back together.
Looking back on the past, I can now see the silver linings amidst the turmoil. Don’t get me wrong—it was a horrible time, filled with struggles I wish my past self never had to go through. She didn’t deserve that, and neither did I. But it wasn’t despite the pain that I changed—it was because of it. Pain forced me to learn, to grow, to confront everything I had buried inside.
Deep down, I knew I would die if I stayed where I was. I could choose to let myself rot, or I could choose to grow. It’s not a simple choice. It’s hard to trust in a future you can’t yet see. I didn’t have faith in anything back then; simply, I hoped to survive each day, knowing that if today wasn’t like day zero, then it was, in fact, getting better.
I am sharing my breakdown with you, the reader, because I want you to know that it’s okay to shatter and fall to pieces.It’s okay to not have everything figured out. Sometimes, life will strip you down to nothing, leaving you no choice but to rebuild from the ground up. It’s terrifying, but there is also something profoundly freeing about it. You get to decide who you become. You get to choose what you hold onto and what you leave behind.
I won’t pretend that I have it all together now. There are still moments when the weight of uncertainty settles in when I feel like I’m drifting without direction. But I no longer see that as a failure. I’ve learned that being lost doesn’t mean I’m broken.
I used to believe that healing meant returning to who I once was, but I’ve realised that’s not the case. Healing is becoming someone new. Someone softer, stronger, wiser. Someone who carries their past with grace and is no longer defined by it.
So, if someone were to ask me how I am, I would tell them this:
I’m a little lost with what I want in life.
But I’m okay.
And for now, that’s enough.
