It’s been four months since I last wrote here. And to be honest, I stared at this blank screen for a while, not knowing where or how to begin.

There’s a strange kind of silence that sits in the chest when you’re not okay but still trying. These past months, I’ve woken up feeling like a hollow version of myself—as if there was a quiet ache nested deep within me, one that words couldn’t reach. It felt like my mind was running at half-speed while the world kept demanding full capacity. I pressured myself to have answers. To know the next step. To justify every choice I made.
But in the end, all I felt was lost.

Healing is not a straight path. Some days feel like forward motion. Others feel like slipping backwards into the same dark room. But now, I carry a lantern with me.

February to March: The Quiet Battle

I took some time off work. My soul needed it, even if I didn’t know how to say it out loud.

I was depressed. Not the poetic kind—just the raw, aching, breathless kind that makes you question your worth even on the sunniest days.
I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so I kept the mask on—smiling, showing up, nodding when I was supposed to. But behind closed doors, I was falling apart.

I cried—silently, in corners no one could see.
I wrote—to find oxygen when the sadness felt like it was pressing on my chest.
And when I couldn’t write, I sat still and listened to the hum of my heartbeat, wondering if anyone would notice if it broke.

The scariest part wasn’t the sadness itself.

It was the shame that came with it—the fear that people would see me as weak, broken, or dramatic.

But I realized something:
Depression doesn’t define me. It’s something I’m walking through, not something I am.

So I did the hardest thing. I asked for help. I chose to say, “I’m not okay.”
And that tiny sentence cracked open a door I had kept locked for far too long.

April to May: Healing, Gently

Healing is not a straight path. Some days feel like forward motion. Others feel like slipping backwards into the same dark room. But now, I carry a lantern with me.

I’m learning to give myself grace.
To say, “Yes, I panicked,” or “Yes, I avoided that moment,” but also, “That doesn’t make me less brave.”

Some days I still act impulsively or spiral in anxious thoughts. But I’m learning to pause, forgive, and talk back to the harsh voice in my head. I remind myself what I read once from Jacqueline Whitney:

“Sweet soul, I’m sorry I’ve been really hard on you.”

And I whisper back: “I forgive you.”

I am not my worst days.
I am not my anxious moments.
I am not the absence of light.
I am learning.
And I am still here.

Final Thoughts: If You’re Reading This

The most beautiful and frustrating truth about life is this:
Everything changes.
Even the sadness.
Even the days you thought would never end.
Even you.

So if you’re struggling, please—keep swimming. Even if it feels like a crawl. Even if it feels like just keeping your head above water. That is brave. That is enough.

You are not alone in this.

You are not broken.

And you are most certainly, always, worth fighting for.

Life is worth fighting for.
And so are you.