The journey to healing began not with sudden breakthroughs but with small choices that felt monumental. I learned to breathe slowly when panic attacks came, counting to four as if those numbers could tether me to the present. I took up writing, letting ink and paper hold my pain when words got stuck inside.

Therapy wasn’t magic but a quiet place where I could lay down my invisible burdens. Speaking aloud the fears and sadness made them smaller, less sharp. I discovered mindfulness and meditation, practices that taught me to be gentle with myself when my mind raced too fast.

Reconnecting with old hobbies helped too—drawing, music, moments in nature. I sought out friends who listened without judgment, even if there were only one or two. I learned it was okay to ask for help, and stronger than I thought to admit when I was struggling.

Healing was messy—a journey of steps forward and backward, but always moving toward the light.