Sharing your story, good and bad, can be terrifying. Will you be judged? Is anyone going to listen, hear, or relate to you? Will it even make you feel better? It’s been 1,175 days, and all those thoughts are spiraling through my mind as I type this.
I feel scared but also ready to share a story that changed me in all the worst and best ways, I never knew I’d live to see.
There are moments in life that change us. Not loudly or dramatically, but quietly, like a soft crack in the foundation you don’t notice until everything feels uneven. There was a moment in my life. A single night, a single decision by someone else that changed me in ways I didn’t see coming. I won’t describe the event itself, because the specifics don’t matter as much as what it took from me. What matters is that something happened that crossed a boundary I never agreed to, something that left me feeling small in a situation where I should have felt safe.
I remember feeling confused, trapped between fear and disbelief. I remember wanting it to stop. I remember the heaviness afterward. The shock, the numbness, the instinct to blame myself even though I had done nothing wrong. For a long time, my body didn’t feel like mine. It felt like a place where something happened instead of a place where I lived. I avoided mirrors. I avoided touch. I avoided moments where I had to feel fully present in my own skin. It wasn’t shame. It was a distance. Like I was living beside myself instead of inside myself.
Talking about it was never easy. In the beginning, I didn’t know how to form the words. Everything felt tangled. Fear, confusion, disbelief, guilt that was never mine to carry. For a while, silence felt safer. It was my way of surviving, of keeping the world from touching a wound that still felt raw.
I didn’t walk away as the same person I was before. Something in me shifted. And that shift is what I’ve been learning to heal. Some days, it feels like I’m trying to breathe underwater. Other days, I surprise myself. Feeling strong, steady, more like who I was before everything shifted.
For a long time, I didn’t call it anxiety. I thought I was just “being cautious,” or “feeling off.” But anxiety has a way of settling into your life like an unwanted roommate. Turning familiar spaces uncomfortable and ordinary moments heavy.
I had so many amazing people in my corner that kept me grounded and reminded me of my why. They fought the hard fight with me. I wanted to drop out of school and quit my journey towards being a teacher because what was the point? I wanted to quit therapy and medicine because I didn’t want to be defined by those things. I wanted to end it all because my spark was gone, and I felt empty. All because of another person, and I just couldn’t get my mind to get over it. It was engraved in my thoughts every waking second of every day.
I’m so glad I didn’t give up. I didn’t let anxiety, depression, and that evil man win. If I had given up on that fight, I wouldn’t have gotten both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I wouldn’t be a first-year teacher doing what I love with a class that is everything my heart needs. I wouldn’t be seeing my nieces grow up and wouldn’t be patiently waiting for a new niece on the way. I wouldn’t have been able to do all the things God has planned for my life.
Most importantly, I wouldn’t be in a two-year relationship with the love of my life, Jack, who didn’t erase the trauma but made me believe in possibility again. Jack is the most God sent gift I never deserved but am forever grateful for. He’s helped me remember what it feels like to laugh without bracing, to breathe without tension, to be held without fear.
He didn’t try to “fix” me. He didn’t try to rush my healing. He didn’t ask me to explain things I wasn’t ready to say. On days when anxiety made me quiet, he didn’t take it personally. On nights when I needed space, he didn’t guilt me for it. When I froze, he didn’t push, yet he waited. His patience softened me and taught me that safety doesn’t have to be proven with words; it’s shown through consistency. He simply met me where I was and made sure I knew it was okay to not be okay. In doing that, he changed my life. Not by “saving” me, but by walking beside me while I saved myself.
I’ve learned that healing is not about “getting over it.” It’s about slowly rebuilding trust. Trust in my surroundings, trust in other people, and trust in myself. I’ve learned that healing isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about reclaiming the parts of me that were shaken, one small piece at a time.
Trauma doesn’t make you weak. Anxiety doesn’t make you dramatic. Your feelings do not need permission to exist. You can be strong and still struggle. You can be healing and still hurt. You can be moving forward even when your steps feel small. No one sees the battles you fight just to show up. Showing up, even imperfectly, is brave.
I didn’t choose what happened to me. What I did choose, every day, was how I rose from it. That choice is a strength I never expected to find. Sharing this is part of my healing.
It’s me saying: this happened, it changed me, but it did not end me.
If you’re reading this and carrying a similar weight, I hope you know you’re not alone. Be gentle with yourself, because growth often looks like tiny steps forward, not dramatic leaps. Surround yourself with people who make you feel safe, heard, and valued. Reach out for support when the weight feels too heavy to carry alone. And above all, honor your progress, even the quiet moments where you simply choose to keep going. Healing is not about being fearless; it’s about showing up for yourself with courage, compassion, and honesty, even on the hard days. You’re not alone, you’re not broken, and your future is still full of light.