The Part Where You Come Back to Life

I don’t know how to start this neatly, because nothing about this season has been neat.

I’ve cried on bathroom floors.

I’ve cleaned out entire rooms like I was exorcising ghosts.

I’ve laid in bed wondering how the hell I got here.

And I’ve smiled through it all when people asked, "How are you doing?"

Truth?

I’ve been unraveling.

Not in a dramatic way. Not for attention.

Just quietly breaking down because life hit hard-and I had to keep going anyway.

Maybe you know that feeling.

Maybe you’ve been holding yourself together with caffeine, playlists, and hope.

Breakups. Burnouts. Breakdown moments.

It’s all part of the story no one likes to talk about.

The parts where you leave someone you swore you’d spend forever with-and you're not even sure if you're brave or broken for doing it.

Where you look around at the life you’ve built and realize you weren’t living it-you were enduring it. And it's all gone now.

Where even your laughter sounds foreign, like an echo from someone you used to be.

You forget what makes you feel alive.

You forget what safety feels like in your own skin.

You forget how to relax your jaw.

How to eat without guilt.

How to sit still without scrolling.

How to be without performing.

You forget who you were before survival became your identity.

And that-right there-is where the real work begins.

Not the cute “new chapter” photo dump.

Not the glow-up.

Not the gym selfies or revenge body or cutting your hair to feel in control.

The real work is quieter. Slower. Uglier.

It’s peeling yourself off the bathroom floor.

It’s sitting with the silence and not rushing to fill it.

It’s cooking for yourself when you’d rather just not eat at all.

It’s answering your child’s question with a soft voice when your insides feel like shards of glass.

It’s holding yourself when no one else will.

It’s learning to trust your own hands to rebuild-again.

It’s not knowing who you are anymore-and deciding to meet yourself anyway.

This isn’t the beginning of a pretty story.

It’s the part where you come home to yourself, barefoot and bruised, holding all the pieces.

And somehow, you realize-you are still worth the return.

So… how do you come back?

You come back by doing the most basic sh*t and letting that be enough.

You come back by waking up and drinking water.

By eating something that didn’t come out of a package.

By moving your body-not to punish her, but to remind her she’s still alive.

By lighting a candle just because you want the room to smell like peace.

By looking in the mirror and whispering, “We’re getting there.”

You don’t need to fix everything.

You just need to stop abandoning yourself.

When It’s Not a Glow-Up, It’s a Goddamn Resurrection

This season might not be pretty.

But it’s sacred.

You are not weak for falling apart.

You are strong for choosing to rise again.

You are not meant to carry it all alone.

You are allowed to soften, to scream, to rest, to want more.

You’re allowed to not be okay.

But please—don’t give up on yourself.

Rituals That Helped Me Crawl Back

• Box breathing on the bathroom floor when I couldn't stop crying.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Again. Again.

• Journaling without censoring, even when it was ugly, even when I didn’t recognize the version of me on the page.

• Mirror work, forcing myself to look into my own eyes and say, “I still choose you. I’m not giving up.”

• Fasting-not to punish myself, but to quiet the noise and hear what my body and God was trying to say beneath the ache.

• Forcing myself to shower, brush my hair, make the bed. The little things that slowly told my nervous system we were safe again.

• Crying in the dark, then lighting a candle. One tiny flame that meant hope still lived here.

• Walking. Moving. Getting outside, even when it felt like dragging my grief on a leash behind me.

• Whispering prayers, even when I wasn’t sure I believed in anything anymore. At first, they were just words-murmured into tear-soaked pillows and empty rooms. But something in me kept whispering anyway.

And in that quiet persistence, I met God again.

Not the God of fear or performance, but the One who waits in the silence.

The One who sees you sobbing on the floor and still calls you sacred.

The One who never stopped listening, even when I stopped speaking.

My faith didn’t come back loud-it came back in layers.

In the patterns of clouds. In the song that played at the right moment.

In the way the air felt different when I finally chose myself.

This wasn’t blind belief.

It was a remembered knowing-a soul-deep recognition of something ancient and alive.

The kind that only comes after you’ve questioned everything… and still choose to kneel.

This is the part they don’t tell you about healing. It’s gritty. It’s slow. It’s f*cking holy.

I don’t have all the answers- but I found my hard fought hallelujah .

If you’re in your own messy middle… I see you.