“A Journey Back to Myself.”

There comes a moment, after the years of fog, 

When you realize that healing is not a destination, 

But a quiet unfolding, a delicate peeling 

Of layers built up in the shadow of depression.

For so long, the days blurred into one, 

The weight of sadness pressing down like stone, 

An invisible burden that no one could see, 

A storm that raged beneath your skin, 

Uninvited, unkind, and relentless.

You lived through it— 

Not truly alive, but existing. 

Like a bird that forgets how to fly, 

And instead, watches the world from below, 

Too heavy to soar, too tired to dream.

But healing doesn’t ask for grand gestures, 

Or dramatic acts of courage. 

It begins softly, like the first rays of dawn, 

Breaking through the long, dark night. 

A sigh, a tear, an unspoken prayer.

It starts with permission. 

The permission to feel again, 

To feel without fear of drowning in it. 

To acknowledge the weight, 

Without letting it define you forever. 

There is no map for healing. 

No clear path to take, 

Just the tender art of walking again, 

One step after another, 

Even when your feet seem reluctant, 

Even when the earth beneath feels too unsteady.

You begin to rediscover yourself, 

Not as you were before the darkness, 

But as someone who has grown around it. 

You learn to cherish small victories: 

A day without tears, 

A moment of laughter, 

A thought that is light instead of heavy. 

You rebuild what was broken 

Not with haste, but with patience. 

You patch the cracks with understanding, 

And fill the empty spaces with gentleness. 

Healing is an act of tenderness, 

Like learning to love a body that once felt like a cage, 

Like learning to trust a mind that once betrayed you. 

It’s not always linear, this journey. 

There are days when the shadows creep back, 

When you feel like you’re sinking again. 

But healing is not a promise of perpetual happiness— 

It’s a promise that, even in the darkest of times, 

You can rise again. 

That you are not broken beyond repair. 

That you can breathe without suffocating. 

You are not the sum of your suffering. 

You are the survivor of it, 

The witness to your own quiet transformation, 

The one who has learned to carry the weight 

And still stand tall.

And in the end, healing is not about erasing the past— 

It’s about making peace with it. 

About learning that even the scars 

Can be beautiful in their own way. 

Because they show you that you’ve lived through it all, 

And still, you are here.

You are healing, 

Not in spite of the years of pain, 

But because of them. 

And that, in itself, is a quiet miracle.