At the time, I laughed it off. I knew that our friendship would shift with distance and change, but I always hoped we would stay in each other’s lives. Most of my college friends did not stand the test of time and distance, but my friendship with Sam did.

As I approached graduation, I gave Sam a picture frame to hold onto, complete with hand-written calligraphy of our names at the top. It was my way of telling her that I cherished her friendship, and I was so grateful for her.

I gave it to her because I was leaving, but I never imagined I would get it back because she was gone.

After Sam’s memorial, her husband found a group of my friends in the parking lot and, without any prior knowledge, handed me a picture frame.

Somehow, the frame I gifted her made its way back to me at her memorial.

And all I could think was: I gave this to her when I left college, and now she left me.

And I’m going to miss her way too much.

There are some moments when grief looks like ugly sobbing in the parking lot when you thought there were no tears left. Sometimes, it comes in a wave that knocks the wind out of you before you have the chance to stop it. Sometimes, it takes the shape of the most ordinary object: a gift that you once gave without too much thought, but one that you carefully chose, crafted, and gave with love.

You never give someone a gift thinking you’ll get it back.

I have thought about that frame often, how it traveled from my hands to hers and then, after several years, back to mine. How the meaning changed without the object changing at all.

Maybe grief is like that. It takes familiar things and makes them unfamiliar. It turns gifts into keepsakes, memories into places we revisit alone, and ordinary objects into evidence of a life that was here.

And sometimes, shattering grief looks like a gift that comes back.

Despite the frame holding so much grief, it also holds the joy of our friendship.

I wish I could tell Sam that I understand now what she meant when she said she would miss me way too much.

Still, I am grateful that the frame came back. Not because I wanted it returned, or because I wanted anything that would require her to be gone. But, because it is a reminder of the love within our friendship that will always remain. Maybe it is also a reminder that she loved me enough to fear missing me. That we mattered to each other, enough that she saved a parting gift that I gave her.

Perhaps the gifts we give don’t always come back empty; sometimes they return carrying memories and love. Sometimes they return to remind us that although someone has left this world, the mark they made on our lives is still here, and always will be.

Sam may have left me, but she did not leave me without love. As long as I am here to remember her, to speak about her, and to carry the story of our friendship, a part of what we shared will continue to live.

The frame is mine again, but it will always belong to the story of our friendship.

And perhaps that is what love leaves behind: not an absence we learn to accept, but a presence we learn to carry.

Note: I promise that this blog will not be solely about grief, but I told myself when I started this blog that I would be authentic to what I was navigating in my life. As I move forward, I will continue to do that, rather than having just one “niche.” If my posts connect with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments! And if not, thank you for being here regardless. Much love to you all. ♡

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Prompt: Are there any items that you own that have a deeper meaning to you?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

On the day that Sam accompanied me to my tattoo appointment, she shared with me the meaning of her own tattoo, reminding me that we can carry struggle and still be beautiful, sensitive, and strong. Her life embodied this sentiment, as it was full of strength, love, and resilience that inspired anyone lucky enough to know her.

Sam’s tattoo was a sword surrounded by flowers, inspired by the fantasy novels she loved. For her, it was a physical reminder that beauty, strength, sensitivity, and pain can coexist. Her life depicted this, as she was diagnosed with Fanconi Anemia at 18. She navigated mystery symptoms, hospitals, scans, chemotherapy, and a bone marrow transplant all by the age of 22.

As Sam recovered from her procedures, she began living her life with more freedom. She married the love of her life, moved all over the world with her husband, and crocheted and read in her free time.

At this time, my debilitating mystery medical symptoms began. As my health fell apart, Sam was the one who could understand my heartache in a way that no one else could. She understood the hospitals, medical trauma, and the fear of wondering whether your body will ever cooperate with the life that you deeply desire. Her listening ear offered quiet support and a safe space to land. Through every procedure and recovery, I knew that I could complain or send her pictures of my reality, and she would listen without judgment.

The Ordinary Silence

It has been twenty-seven days without her, and the world feels noticeably emptier.

On the day of her passing, I navigated a surgery that I couldn’t message her about. I went through physical recovery and sudden grief simultaneously, realizing that eight years of friendship was never going to be enough for the kind of lifelong friendship we had.

She was woven into my everyday life. It was a long-distance friendship that was a constant but often overlooked with the distance. We sent random messages to one another each day, shared reels, and encouraged each other while commiserating about being counseling graduate students. We shared a rare and beautiful kind of friendship where words weren’t always necessary. We met each other with a soft compassion, knowing how deeply we both knew pain and joy. The safety within our friendship is one that, looking back, I wish that I had fully acknowledged. Our friendship taught me what a true, nonjudgmental friendship looks like, and will forever have an impact on me.

I find comfort in knowing we exchanged messages on her last day, even though neither of us knew what was coming. As mundane as it was, our last interactions were just two best friends sharing ordinary events of their day, because we fully believed there would be another conversation tomorrow.

Carrying Her Forward

Sam fought for her life from the very beginning, through health issues and their inevitable mental health impact. She opened her heart to love, and stayed soft despite unimaginable hardship.

She had so many futures she deserved: finishing graduate school, becoming a school counselor, watching her newborn niece grow up, growing old with her husband, becoming a mom, and discovering new tiny bookstores, among others. Sometimes something is just impossibly, unbearably wrong, and there isn’t a reason big enough to make sense of it.

The world won’t be the same without her and her big heart. But as I continue as a counseling graduate student and a therapist, I will always be carrying her with me. Her kindness, her compassion, and her strength will be carried into every room I enter and all of the work that I do. Her impact didn’t end twenty-seven days ago; it lives on through the goals that we shared.

Real, True Friendship

Though Sam was only 26 and her passing was sudden and unexpected, the gift of a real friendship is certainty in knowing how we felt about one another. Closure would have absolutely been wanted, but having her kind voice in my head has protected me.

Sam’s life was an ongoing demonstration of strength and love. Fundamentally, I am a better person for knowing her, loving her, and having her as one of my very best friends.

Eight years of friendship were never going to be enough, but I would choose every single one of them again.

I love you, Sam, forever and always. Thank you for being my best friend. ♡

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Prompt: Think of a person, community, or experience that has shaped you. What is one quality, lesson, or value you hope to carry forward?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

“This year, I’ll take a vacation and be better when I come back,” I’d tell myself.

Every year, I begged my parents for the kind of vacation that would somehow fix everything. I pictured the ocean stretching endlessly into the horizon, or a quiet cabin in the mountains, complete with big windows and a hot tub outside. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere beautiful, and somewhere that felt like a deep breath.

Somewhere that would change me.

I believed that if I could just step far enough away from my normal life, something inside me would finally shift my emotional state, permanently eliminating the sadness and the anxiety that overtook my existence. If I could just find a way to fix it, I could come back to my normal life as the version of myself I was supposed to be.

But every time the break ended, I would come home with the same realization: I was still sad, anxious, and unsure of how to fix it.

So, the cycle would repeat again.

The Hope

I thought that with enough self-help books, summer vacations, and plans that felt joyful, something would finally click. I wanted to learn to cultivate the joy and emotional well-being that I deeply craved.

I believed there had to be something tangible or some kind of formula that could convince my brain to cure itself.

And when that didn’t happen, the defeat felt loud.

Depression in Isolation

No one sat with me in my internal world long enough to tell me that depression wasn’t my fault. Instead, I adapted a wishful hope that perhaps an ocean view would turn the depression, irritability, and anxiety switches off in my brain. Maybe a break from the stress would make everything better.

The implication underneath it all was that if those things didn’t work, then maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

Because as a teenager, I firmly believed that if I felt broken, I had to be the one to fix it alone.

What if I Escaped to a Beach House?

Recently, I caught myself thinking something strangely familiar.

What if I just quit everything?

What if I quit my Ph.D. program, quit my job, and escape to a little beach house with an ocean view for the summer?

Surely that would fix it.

And then I realized: this thought feels familiar.

I had been having some version of it for years. Only now, as a therapist, I see it differently.

I was never actually searching for the perfect vacation. I was searching for emotional regulation. A place that allows me to cultivate a reality that feels safe, peaceful, and internally connected. A place where my nervous system can finally rest. A place where the constant effort of holding everything together could let go for a while.

The ocean, the mountains, and the quiet cabins were all symbols of the internal space I am still learning how to build.

The truth is that sometimes we imagine running away because we’re trying to run toward something, whether it be calm, safety, connection, or relief.

These things aren’t created by summer vacations, but are created slowly through support, understanding, and learning how to sit with ourselves in ways we were never taught before.

The ocean view might still be nice, but it was never the “fix.”

But cultivating connection, internal safety, and moments of peace may begin to create a reality that feels like rest.

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Prompt: What is one way that you can engage in rest this week?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

The bracelets brought me so much joy. The extra shine on my body made me feel beautiful and alive again, especially because chronic illness often steals the energy required to put on jewelry in the morning.

Little did I know that three months later, I would have to cut them off for an MRI.

The Cost of Chronic Illness

Today, I finally got them reattached, but not in the way that I had once imagined. I watched the jeweler snip off some gold to make space for clasps, rather than restoring the seamless jump rings that made them feel permanent.

I had not factored in the cost, figuratively and literally, of living with chronic illness. The clasps are a visible reminder of all that it steals from me, from things as small as the inability to wear permanent jewelry to much more than that.

And honestly, that’s the life of someone with chronic illness. My illness dictates my jewelry decisions. My illness means even the small joys need to be removable. My illness is so unpredictable that I cannot get permanent jewelry without thinking twice. Because ultimately, joy isn’t so permanent for me.

Reattaching Joy

The clasps now sitting where the solid rings once were feel symbolic, depicting the ups and downs. They remind me of the moments of beauty, as well as the moments where that beauty has to be removed for tests, procedures, and raw pain.

But the clasps are also a reminder that I can still put beauty back on. It can be reattached. Even if it doesn’t look like other people’s seamless, perfect pieces. My bracelets have been snipped, shortened, and cut down the middle. Yet, they have been made whole again.

My journey doesn’t have to look untouched to be beautiful. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. The pain can coexist with the beauty.

And even with illness and unpredictability, I still get to choose moments of joy and adornment when I can, and remove them when I need to, without losing myself in the process.

My journey may look different, and it certainly isn’t seamless. But it is uniquely my own, and that in and of itself is beautiful.

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Prompt: What is one way that you can invite joy back into your life?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

My pain wasn’t visible, and my voice stayed calm, warm, and steady. But my head nodding stopped, and my facial expressions were minimal.

Instead of recognizing the strength it took to remain in session, to stay verbally responsive, and to stay mentally present with my client despite the pain, my professor noted my lack of “presence,” grading me at a 0/5.

My peers labeled me as “frozen,” “disingenuous,” and “scripted.”

In that moment, I felt a rush of embarrassment, despair, and frustration. Instead of being met with compassion, understanding, or curiosity, I was met with judgment and misunderstanding. My effort, resilience, and pain were invisible to them, and I was written off with labels that made me wonder if my clients hated me and if I was a bad counselor.

I like to believe that if my classmates walked a day in my shoes, the response would be different. What looks like detachment or disengagement from the outside can be immense strength and perseverance from the inside. Perspective is a lens through which empathy and understanding become possible.

So, I choose to recognize myself. To validate my strength. To honor the part of me that stayed present, responsive, and committed to my work, even when it felt impossible, even if it was completely missed by others.

Living with invisible chronic pain teaches you to recognize your own resilience and to hold space for your own courage, even when the world fails to see it. Sometimes, showing up for yourself is the bravest act of all.

Of course, I want to become a better therapist. These are learning experiences that show me how things might look from the outside during a flare. I will continue to be aware, while remembering that we aren’t always meant to mask our pain. It is not the end of the world for our clients to see that we are humans, too.

And so, after criticism, I still choose to acknowledge my struggles, hold value for my persistence, and continue to remember that my strength does not depend on anyone else’s recognition.

Note: For anyone living with invisible chronic illness, please remember this: your effort, your perseverance, and your courage are real, even when others don’t see it. You have permission to not take criticism to heart and trust the internal voice that knows you better than anyone else.

You don’t need validation from someone else to honor your strength. Your resilience matters, even if it’s invisible to the world.

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Prompt: Have you ever experienced criticism or negative comments? What is an affirmation that you can use in moments like that?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

I don’t know the truth in that statement, but all I know is the fear that it instilled. From the moment I was diagnosed, my body felt like an inescapable ticking time bomb.

I never imagined reaching two years. I told myself that I would do everything in my power to make sure that I didn’t. To make sure that I didn’t have to live the rest of my life in unfathomable pain.

2/4/24 is an eerie date for me. The repetition of the numbers existing alongside the countless times that I have had to repeat the date to doctors have permanently etched it into my long-term memory.

On the two-year migraine-aversary, I checked in with myself and tried to name what I was feeling. Only one thought came to mind:

“It feels like my life is over, even though rationally I know that it’s not.”

Underneath this thought is deep-rooted fear, despair, and hopelessness. It is hard to sit with, especially for a girl whose whole brand is hope, both on this blog and on a brand new tattoo on my body.

In the pain milestones I never saw myself living through, I have been reminding myself of two things during this one:

1. Despair and hopelessness are incredibly valid; they demand to be felt in order to be moved through. Pretending that they aren’t there will only cause them to grow.

2. Emotions are fleeting, which means that the overwhelm will pass. Despair, depression, joy, and excitement continue to come and go, some days louder than others. And even here, there is still life left to be lived.

My life didn’t end the day my pain began. It just shifted. Albeit in massive and painful ways, though it would be dishonest to say that nothing good has happened in the last two years.

I felt less excitement than years prior, but even here, I have experienced moments of internal growth, fulfillment, self-understanding, and compassion born from struggle. And despite it all, I have continued to find moments of joy alongside the pain.

I will continue settling into who I am, exploring new passions and hobbies, and finding ways to continue my career in a way that works with my health.

Pain doesn’t negate all that you have to offer. It just shifts the way that it happens.

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Prompt: Reflect on something that you thought you would not make it through—this can be as simple as you want it to be.

What moments of good have existed alongside this, even briefly?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

The photographer. The college dancer. The one with a big friend group. The jewelry-maker. The musician. The choir teacher. The dance teacher. The married-young. The one who lives abroad. The full-time writer. The editor. The screenwriter. The LA girl.

The thing they all have in common is their freedom to explore. To create. To live.

They lived inside a world that didn’t hinder their expression but embraced and encouraged it. The hardest part is realizing that the passion itself was never different between them and me. What was different was the world I lived in, which was a world that discouraged the expressive version of myself.

A Quieted Inner Voice

I grew up in a world that viewed achievement as necessary for belonging. This world looked down on full-time creating, on the music major or minor, and on big dreams that didn’t rest on certainty, stability, or education. It was a world that valued job-hunting with higher education degrees over joy, curiosity, and self-expression. Taking a chance in life was discouraged because there could possibly be failure. And, well, failure was not allowed.

So, I spent my whole life quieting the voice that held my passions and the voice that said I was capable of more. At a young age, I learned which parts of myself were acceptable and which ones needed to be set aside. I told myself I was re-prioritizing and doing what was “right.” But in reality, I was slowly losing myself.

The Pros, Cons, and Everything In-Between

I thought I had unlocked my potential when I agreed to start my Ph.D. in counseling right after completing back-to-back bachelor’s and master’s degrees. It felt like I was finally doing something right. Like I was finally successful, and others could finally see me for something more. At last, the girl who wanted to drop out of high school and who struggled to keep her grades above failing had finally made it. I was finally worthy of respect and finally deserving of my parents being proud of me.

Regardless of my choices, I wasn’t given the respect and pride that I had hoped I had earned from the person that I needed it from most.

I don’t regret my choice to pursue higher education, and it has changed me and gifted me with confidence and self-worth that I may never have found otherwise. However, higher education is not without its consequences.

Consequences

I think it’s normal to wonder about who we might have been, had we taken a different path. All I know is that the choices that I made trapped me inside more rules, guidelines, expectations, rejection, and criticism. It was safe, because it was the only way I knew how to live. I was taught to measure success through achievement, and to view a career from the big-picture lens instead of the day-to-day experience of living. I was taught to be practical, and set aside passion and happiness in exchange for societally-valued degrees. Somewhere along the way, I learned to hinge my worth on a title rather than who I am as a human.

After all, that is what happens when the 9-year-old girl expresses wanting to be a dancer, and her parents remind her that it is not practical or possible to pursue a career in the arts.

Both Proud and Unfulfilled

Although I am proud of how I have grown as a student, I am reflecting at the halfway point in my degree. I am realizing that my life is something that I am proud of, but deeply unfulfilled by. It lacks memories, joy, community, passion, hobbies, free-time, space to pour into myself, and most of all, love.

Looking at my life through the lens of where I thought I’d be has never served me. Still, I wonder what it would look like if I had taken a different path or made a different decision. I wonder what it would look like had I allowed myself the freedom I wasn’t given by those who had a hand in guiding me—those who shaped the voice in my head and helped chart my path forward.

The Unlearning

If I could go back, I don’t know if I would change anything. Or, maybe I would change everything. All I know is this: I made the best decisions I could with what I knew, where I was, and the definitions of success and worth I was taught.

Perhaps these can be unlearned. Maybe it’s possible to come into a deeper sense of self even after following the trajectory of the “most valued degree.” Because value is inherent, not earned. Alongside that unlearning, I hope to bring values-aligned pieces of my life back to myself, allowing passions, hobbies, interests, and freedoms back in at a pace that agrees with my health.

Maybe, in the end, it’s the living that might be the most healing.

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Prompt 1: What is one way that you can invite joy back into your life?

Bonus! Prompt 2: What are your definitions of success and worth?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

I’m in the third year of my Ph.D. program, and every spring semester until now, I have been in some sort of medical hell. January creeps up with reminders of significant dates, like ghosts from my past.

January 10th, 2024: the last day of working at the elementary school without knowing.

January 11th, 2024: I got a steroid shot that knocked me off my feet and required a year of re-learning how to walk.

January 31st, 2024: the day I knew something was wrong, and I felt the inklings of a nonstop migraine beginning.

January 13th, 2025: the blind epidural blood patch that left its mark.

The thing that these dates have in common is the reminder that in an instant, without my consent, my life can completely change.

They remind me that though we put our trust in the medical system, it can fail us. In quick decisions, we are the ones left alone in the aftermath.

This is the first January that I’m going into the spring semester of my Ph.D. program without a walking boot or an ice pack tucked between my back and my chair. It is the first January in which I don’t feel as though the rug has been ripped out from underneath me.

However, it’s also the first January where I have space to process.

The Processing

Thinking back to last year, this January gives me the chance to process the parts of my blind epidural blood patch that were painful and done without my consent. I’m processing the silent tears on the operating table, the complete dismissal of my physical pain in the exam and operating rooms, the disregard for humanity that my doctors had in that moment, and the scars that I have been left with, both physical and emotional.

I am reminded of this as a procedure that triggered my hyper-independence. I felt forced to internalize excruciating physical and emotional pain, so I wouldn’t scare anyone. So that no one would question me for trusting a doctor who didn’t care about me. I chose not to ask for help and maintained my composure, because I was the one who chose to trust the doctor who hastily ordered a procedure without regard for my physical safety, and left me to face the aftermath alone.

The Witnessing

It was my choice to agree to the procedure, and I own it. However, no one was there to tell me I wasn’t alone. No one sat with me in my pain and kept me company as I suffered. No one caught my tears as the realization set in that the procedure hadn’t worked.

Bearing witness to pain and having community within it is not a desire, but a fundamental human need. Hyper-independence is a trauma response born out of experiences where witnessing and support were needed, but not given.

Medical trauma adds to this, making us question which medical professional can be trusted, and who will be there to support us should things go awry.

As a therapist, I talk a lot about reprocessing, not as rewriting what happened, but as giving our past selves what they didn’t have at the time, which is often someone to bear witness and offer compassion. A patch-present is my attempt at that—witnessing the girl who felt she was alone, and recognizing her bravery.

What I Would Tell Myself Then

What I would tell the version of myself a year ago, wide-eyed, hopeful, and desperate for relief:

You sat in religious spaces and prayed for the procedure to solve your pain. For this to be the January that changed your life for the better. You begged for a solution, and for it to finally be your turn to experience a normal life. Your mind, body, and spirit were wholly invested in this procedure being the thing that would make it all okay.

Well, darling, it was okay. Just different than what you would have ever imagined.

One year later, I am not pain-free. That procedure hurt more than it helped. But, it revealed something much more important:

Being pain-free was not the magic key to dreaming again, living again, and traveling again.

You were able to do all of it this year. You are teaching, working as a therapist, and trying to find ways to fill your cup. You are reconnecting with friends, dating, driving again, and you were just able to go on a vacation and enjoy it. Can you believe it?

One year later, let me be the one to give you a patch-present. Because although you feel alone in your pain, both physical and mental, I am witnessing it.

I witness your pain, and also your strength. Your decisions may have been judged, and you may have been reprimanded for trusting a doctor. But my dear, it was not your fault. You did what a professional believed was best, which just shows me how dedicated you are to living. And for a girl who has lived in a suicidal world for most of her life, your commitment to living is admirable. Your willingness to keep seeking care, comfort, and the pain-free life you know you deserve is inspiring.

After all of this, I am proof that there will be another January that feels okay, whether or not your circumstances change. I will hold your hand until you get there, and I’ll leave a little survival present at the door. I see you, I hear you, and I am here for you.

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Prompt: What is one way you can offer yourself compassion after a trial?

If it is comfortable for you, you can even write a letter to yourself to extend some compassion.

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

I wanted to make sure that anyone who was uncomfortable by my skin color felt at ease when I spoke.

I hoped that through my language, tonality, and accent, I could undo the narrative that might have been formed about me.

I have tried so hard to erase my Indian roots. To keep my cultural heritage as small as possible in the room. I no longer identify as religious, and I have spent my whole life rejecting anything that brought discomfort to my peers or superiors.

It is an unspoken language that is spoken between you and your loved ones: a language of assimilation and blending in, because it keeps you safe. Digestible. Accepted.

Earning Belonging

As my mom and I walked into my end-of-semester Ph.D. awards ceremony, I noticed her beautiful earrings, which I knew she had been saving for a special occasion. I asked her about them, as meeting my professors is hardly the party that I envisioned her wearing them at.

She replied with, “I know what your professors and classmates think about you and your family when they learn that you’re a daughter of imm*grants.1”

I thanked her, but many words were silently understood.

What went unspoken was our mutual understanding of what she was doing. She dressed in a way that she hoped would bring me more acceptance within the program. She wanted to change the narrative. She wanted to make sure that my professors and classmates were comfortable around me, through the path of assimilation and conformity. We both lived our lives hoping that we could earn belonging, worth, acceptance, and a seat at the table.

Acceptance

Being accepted is a core human need. And, it is a need to survive.

In a workplace, to keep the job, your superiors need to have some level of acceptance to hire you and keep you in the role. To build community and belonging, many of us (whether we are people of color or not) leave our differences and quirks at the door.

We plaster smiles when we’re sad, we fake patience when angry, and we are taught to conform in every semblance of the word.

So I conformed. As a teenager, I burned my hair off with a straight iron when I was told that I had thick Indian hair. I got rid of any birthmarks that looked Indian. I used skin lightening cream for a period of time, with another child’s comment echoing in my head, telling me that my skin looked like the color of poop. I lightened my hair the minute I started high school. I picked silver over gold jewelry as soon as I was old enough to choose. I switched patterned clothes for plain neutral clothes. I returned anything that looked “too Indian.” I under-ate to try to achieve American body image ideals.

Authenticity

The people who I am most drawn to are the people who are unapologetically themselves. The people who inspire me through their acceptance of the differences and cultural nuances I once discarded in an effort to be liked.

As I have grown older and come into myself more, I’ve begun to realize all of the little changes that I made to be accepted transformed me into someone completely different—a sum of all of my little choices. Just imagine who we would be if we grew up without any pressure or noise? If we grew up in an environment that unconditionally accepted us and provided automatic belonging and kindness?

I don’t know who I would have been, and I am still proud of who I am now, with all of my little changes included. However, I realized something important:

All of the assimilation in the world didn’t give me true belonging, acceptance, or safety from the outside world.

It just gave me deeper insecurity, hyper vigilance, fear, and a fragmented sense of self.

Safety

The reality is this: as a woman of color in America, I will never be in the majority.

But, I do not deserve to be treated any differently for my skin color, regardless of how I present myself. I am holding back the urge to prove this statement, as I have to continue to remind myself that worth is inherent. And if I can’t find worth, belonging, and safety in the world around me, I will have to learn to create it within myself.

If you are walking a similar path, I am meeting you here—in the messy middle—as we learn to reconnect with ourselves and begin laying the foundation to internal safety.

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1

The asterisk is purely because, as a woman of color, I live in a state of fear of being tracked, followed, and intimidated, at minimum. Posting public-facing content can feel scary, and to post in a time like this requires an added layer of security in order for me to feel comfortable.

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Prompt: How can you practice self-care in the midst of overwhelm?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own.

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I may be someone that is distracted by pain, rerouted because of pain, and forced to adapt to life with pain.

But, I’m also someone who is capable of so much even with the pain. Pain changes the path I take and what the path looks like, but it doesn’t erase my ability to move forward. Regardless of the pain, I continue to grow. The ways that I grow are no longer by leaps and bounds, or in quick, monumental ways. They are slower and more spread out. And, they are growth, nonetheless.

Growth

For a long time, I saw growth as something distinct, clear, and celebrated by others. Chronic pain taught me otherwise. My growth is no longer by leaps and bounds, and it is often not visible to me. It doesn’t come in quick bursts of progress. It’s slower now, something that comes to me in reflective moments. Looking back, I see that in the time that I felt that I was standing still, I was growing in ways that were hidden. This growth still matters just as much as growth that involves the accolades and applause. Growth can still happen from bed.

Quiet Days of Reflection

During pain, I’ve felt stagnant, as if my life is on pause. But looking back, I can see that even in the hardest days, I’ve been growing.

Personally, during a full year from my childhood bed (also known as 2024), I was able to learn more about myself and the world around me. I developed a passion for helping those that are chronically ill, and have gained a compassion that serves me as a human and as a therapist. On the educational side, I may have slowed my Ph.D. down, but even in the time that I was part-time and online, I never stopped. I unlocked resilience and grit within myself that could only be recognized through the chaos. I continued writing and research, which led me to writing many ideas for publishable articles and books in the future.

In that year, I did not accomplish anything big. But, laying the groundwork, recognizing a new strength within myself, and allowing chronic pain to shift the lens with which I view the world are the essence of growth.

These may be in small, invisible ways, but they allow me to look back and see that all of this time, I have been blooming, even if it didn’t feel like it.

Growth isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it happens in the background, unfolding slowly while we are too focused on surviving to notice.

We can’t discount growth just because we can’t always see it in the moment. Even with the car breaks, the peppermint oil, the fiery skull, and the days that feel like setbacks, growth is happening.

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Prompt: What are the quiet ways you’ve grown, maybe without even realizing it?

Please remember that growth can be as simple as you allow yourself to recognize; there is no shame in it. Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

2024

This year made me a walking pharmacy. I became friends with the (hot) pharmacist, with eyes filled with hope and deep sadness every time I was at his counter for another new prescription. I learned everything I could about migraines and interacted with others who have walked similar paths. I did everything that was comfortable for me, and began to seek treatments that I never would have considered, including trying Botox at 25-years-old, and agreeing to scary procedures. I became the girl who teared up in five doctor’s offices a week, the girl who sat anxiously in waiting rooms, and the girl who begged God for solutions and results that say, “It’s benign.” I learned how fragile health really is, and how my entire world can flip in an instant. I learned how to sit in silence and blinding pain, and formed the building blocks of resilience through endurance.

Grief

This year was the most transformative of my life. I learned true grief, losing far more than just my health. I lost time, friends, relationships, plans, vacations, connection, and the ability to simply exist without calculating how much pain an outing would cost. I missed out on Christmas lights, festivals, and nights out with my friends. I missed out on being 25 and feeling alive. I measured my progress by how many isles of the Trader Joe’s I could walk down. Some days I could walk one, other days all four, and on the worst days, I couldn’t even make it through the parking lot. I told myself that I would re-enter my life and relationships when I felt better, but rather, I had to learn to live in the waiting—a true test of patience and existing in uncertainty.

I became the girl with a chronic foot injury, who was the youngest person in the physical therapist’s office. Outside of appointments and physical therapy, I lived in bed, in silence, learning a kind of stillness most people never allow themselves to feel. I learned low-stimulation living, and the physical pain that can follow laughing, crying, and simply moving. Despite this, I felt everything. I cried from a place of desperation and pain that I had never experienced before—the kind that heaves through your whole body, feeling aches in your chest and an emptiness in your stomach. I came back to religion, desperate for help. I bargained with the world, just asking for a little relief.

Grief showed up in other unexpected ways, and I grieved deeply. I lost my grandparent in an unexpected moment, with no time to say goodbye. I watched my family’s pain and carried my own. I felt friends disappear. I watched my life become smaller. I lived in isolation and longed for connection. I stopped answering texts, not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to explain what I was going through. I told myself I’d reconnect when I felt better. But I never really felt better.

Connection as a Lifeline

Loneliness and suicidality sat loudly beside me, ever-present companions since I was 13. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to live like this. Who would? I returned to coping mechanisms I thought were behind me, using self-harm as a crutch and my eating disorder as a sense of control. The speed at which I began leaning on old habits became a pathway to deeper self-reflection and self-awareness. This led me to researching isolation and learning about the protective factors of self-compassion and social connection.

Moments of Joy

Through it all, I found moments of joy. They didn’t look like they used to, but they existed in a new sweater, a playlist that made me feel like me, an iced coffee, a walk to the mailbox, a laugh that didn’t make my head hurt too much, and the ability to leave the house, even for a little while. These were small moments of joy that made me feel like I was alive again.

I learned to find joy in the mundane. My lifelong FOMO was challenged pretty quickly, and I learned to be okay with small joys rather than solely happy after experiencing Instagram-worthy moments. I learned that in the waiting, I was missing out on living. Even here, life was not meaningless. I began to wonder if I could stop waiting for the pain to go away to begin living my life again in small ways.

I found gratitude for the small moments, I grieved, I prayed, and most of all, I held hope. This hope was born from moments in the sun, in conversation with friends, and in joyful moments. Although fleeting, they allowed me to see that beauty and pain could co-exist. I cried, but I still believed that things could get better, even alongside the pain. I lost myself this year, but I fought to stay. This experience laid a foundation of growth, resilience, and mental health recovery.

2024 Lessons

This year slowed me down, made me reflect, and made me more present. When you can’t see the next hour and you are in blinding pain, it forces you to be present. It forces you to view your priorities and the world differently. It is compassion born out of sheer pain. The kind that can’t be taught in my counseling classes, but the kind that irreversibly shapes you. This year gave me medical trauma and advocacy skills, and shook every hope I had for love, career, and family. But it also taught me presence, patience, deep compassion, and my own resilience. I’m learning to live in the in-between, in the grey area, rather than in extremes. And even here, joy is possible.

2024 was unforgettable—not because it was painless, but because I survived it.

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This sense of being “othered” came inherently from being a person of color, and then extended into so many other areas of my life: being the only one in my friend group who liked romance movies, who was more introspective than humorous, who didn’t like to party, didn’t drink, didn’t have a boyfriend, didn’t follow the same religion, and, more recently, didn’t have the same capacity due to chronic pain.

Today, walking out of class and realizing I’m the only third-year student in a room full of first years, I felt that familiar tug again. The inner child in me, the one who felt the pain of being excluded from the group chat, was alive and hurting.

It is present during the classroom conversations that surround inside jokes I’ll never know, the “we can add you to the group chat” comments that never turn into actual invitations, and the quiet isolation of not having anyone to walk beside when leaving the classroom. These are small things on the surface, but they land in familiar, old wounds.

The Therapist Reframe

Waking out of the classroom by myself, I began reframing this experience through my counselor lens. This part of me recognizes that people naturally gravitate toward their peers and toward those they feel most comfortable with. The exclusion and lack of friendship make sense, are not a reflection of my worth, and do not make me any less enough. But still, my younger self was tugging at my sleeve while whispering, “Hey, it hurts.”

Late Night Reflections

Something I’ve been reflecting on tonight is this: our brains process emotional pain in the same way that they process physical pain.

That means exclusion, heartbreak, and loneliness are not abstract feelings. These are real experiences that change us on a neurological level. When I feel left out, my body registers it as pain, just as it does with the chronic physical pain that I experience daily.

From a nonjudgmental stance, I’ve learned to accept that I won’t always feel the way I think I’m “supposed” to. All the growing, learning, and knowledge in the world don’t erase the wounds that were left unhealed. And that’s okay.

Because here’s the good news: just as physical wounds heal, so can emotional ones—with time, intention, and self-compassion.

The brain is malleable, neural pathways can rewire, and healing is possible. You may have the reminders, scars, and wounded parts of you that come back up from time to time. But these wounds are not weaknesses. They are the definition of resilience and a pathway towards recognition and healing.

If you’re carrying something emotionally heavy right now, know this: your pain is real, and so is your capacity to heal.

The fact that your brain registers this pain means your whole self is alive, resilient, and capable of recovery. With patience, with gentleness, with support, healing is possible.

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Prompt: How do you comfort your inner child when old wounds resurface?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

1. Let go of the timeline. It’s okay if you’re single, if you don’t have a home, if you’re living with your parents, if you don’t have kids yet. Being on your own timeline is strength, and there are benefits to letting go of the picture of how you “thought” things would look like by now. This picture is what holds us back the most.

2. It is never too late to invite change into your life. Pick up the new hobby, apply to school, apply for the new job, or try the new dessert.

3. It is okay to say no. Actually, it is the healthiest thing to do for yourself. Prioritizing rest and self-compassion goes a long way. This life is a marathon, not a sprint.

4. Saying yes and stepping outside of your comfort zone once and a while, to the degree that you are able, can open you up to experiences and memories that fill your cup.

5. Fill your cup before it runs out. It might help to create a list of activities so that you always have some ideas on hand. These activities can be as small as you need.

6. Stress pride is not a sign of strength, but a sign of deep insecurity. Have you ever met someone that takes pride in how much they are doing, and shows off how stressed they are or how many things they have going on at once? Our culture attributes worth to productivity, even if it is at the expense of ourselves. You are the most important.

7. Your worth is not in your productivity.

8. Resilience is waking up each morning. Resilience does not have to be measured in big moments and accomplishments. It can be quiet, small, and just as meaningful.

9. Treat your body like you would want your loved ones to treat theirs. This includes nourishment, rest, and taking care of yourself in the way that is healthiest for you (reminder that health does not have a look).

10. Mental health is health. I would invite you to engage in the activities that care for your mental health. What works for you may not work for everyone, and that is okay. A few options can include journaling, getting some fresh air, going to therapy, connecting with loved ones, or taking a mental health day.

11. Your body is the least important thing about you. We exist within a culture and society that is steeped in fatphobia and weight stigma. Although the pressure might be something you feel, too, remember that the people that are worth keeping around love you for reasons that have nothing to do with your body.

12. Self-awareness and selectivity in friendships is underrated. Chronic illness has a way of showing us transactional friendships, and the friends that are only in your life because you are available to them. This is your reminder that the people that are worth keeping in your life are the people that show up through it all—through the pain, the messy, and the joy.

13. Some friendships and relationships are in your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime (quoted by Brian A. Chalker). It is okay to have relationships that fit in various of these definitions. Each one is valuable in it’s own right, even if it isn’t forever.

14. There are things that your energy deserves, and things that don’t.

15. Joy always comes. In endless, relentless pain, whether that be emotional or physical, it can feel like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Please remember that joy and pain can coexist, and as tough as it is, you will feel joy again.

16. Emotions are fleeting. No emotion lasts forever—not joy, sadness, or anger. This can be both comforting and saddening. However, the human experience is about feeling it all.

17. There is no shame in feeling something other than happy. It is okay to admit when things feel more challenging, and it is okay if you feel that way more often than not. You are not at fault for having emotions, and emotions that we label as “negative” are not inherently bad.

18. Allow support into your life. It can be easy to “tough it out” and rely on yourself, but accepting help, although vulnerable, will lighten the load and deepen relationships in beautiful ways.

19. No one else gets to determine what course you take in life. Expectations and pressure can be met with understanding the power and autonomy that you have. This can feel scary, but also like freedom.

20. Two things can always be true. Life is filled with dualities—pain and joy, beauty and challenges, suffering and growth. Leaning into this message allows for self-compassion when emotions feel complicated.

21. Forgive yourself. You were doing the best you could with what you had, and that is important to remember.

22. Self-compassion is a daily practice, and requires intentionality.

23. Inner child wounds can resurface. Listen to when they are present, responding to stressors, or wanting your attention. Giving them space, love, and attention is what can lead to a corrective experience.

24. There is so much grief within life and within chronic illness. It is okay to miss the version of yourself before life happened, or to wish you knew this version of yourself. Grieving allows for healing.

25. Just because they are family does not mean that you have to let go of your needs or boundaries. Take some time to establish what these could reasonably be, and how to implement these.

26. Growth exists in the slow and painful seasons, even if it is not visible to you or others.

27. Your story matters. Know the power that you have, and the hope that you offer just by being here.

A final birthday bonus: there is always hope to be found. Here’s to 27—another year of life, growth, and using this story for good. Thank you all for being here and for reading!

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“If you think you’re going to walk in here and get a referral during your first appointment, you’d be wrong.”

“I understand.” I echoed back, lost for words.

Three days after receiving my MRV results and scheduling with a new neurologist, I get a call. The nurse tells me, “With your insurance, your neurologist’s referral isn’t enough. We need a referral from your university health center.”

So, I did what chronically ill people do: I pushed down the panic, gathered my records, and went to advocate for myself.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” The doctor said to me.

First came the shock of the MRV results. Second, the fear of what might come next. Then, a heavy dismissal of my reality, in a moment when I needed support the most.

I walked out feeling unseen, unsupported, and profoundly alone.

Empathy and respect should be foundational in medical care. I have had doctors that operate with this value in place, and others who do not.

In the days after this event, I have been harshly reminded that these moments don’t happen in isolation. From the numerous phone calls and administrative hurdles to the anger and disrespect from someone with the power to revoke your access to care… all of this builds. Medical trauma can be a one-time event, or the accumulation of being doubted, dismissed, and treated poorly. These moments compile over time, and shape our feelings of safety in a system that was supposed to support us.

As a therapist who sits with people in their pain every day, I know the power of empathy and respect on a person’s emotional well-being. The therapeutic relationship is the most important part of the work that I do, because it creates the conditions within which healing is possible. When a client feels seen, validated, believed, and supported, real work can happen.

If this same truth were adopted consistently in the medical world, I believe meaningful change could follow. Instances of medical trauma would be reduced. More people would reach out for help. More people would stay in care instead of giving up from exhaustion. More hearts would be spared from dismissal in their deepest moments of despair and vulnerability.

In the midst of pain, the way we are treated is what holds the most weight. People have the ability to lighten our load with a single moment of humanity, or add bricks to our burden that we carry for years.

As both a patient and a therapist, I hope that medicine remembers its humanity. I hope that listening becomes as valued as testing, and that no one has to prove their suffering before they receive care.

Because every person deserves what I strive to give my clients every single day: to be treated like a human being first.

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Almost two years of a daily headache meant that we were now working through the last of the doctor’s recommendations. The MRV was the final thing on the list.

I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“A narrowed vein. Possible chronic blood clot. Scarred over. Occluded. No drainage of intracranial pressure on the left side. Not new, so you are past blood thinners.”

The nurse’s voice was tight, carrying an urgency I wasn’t prepared for. She quickly gave me the contact to a vascular neurologist, specifically a stroke neurologist, and prompted them to schedule my appointment in a week, just two days before Thanksgiving.

“They will clarify what is going on, if there is something that can be treated, and what your treatment options are.”

“A stroke neurologist?” I echoed to my mom, in sheer panic. “I’m literally 26. What the f*ck?”

In one phone call, denial and panic rising up within me, I realized that I had exited the “unremarkable MRI club.”

It has been two years of not finding anything, failing treatments, and being told that I was fine. Two years of blaming myself for the anxiety that seemed to make my headache worse. Two years of desperation, traumatic treatments, and crushed hope. I am not sure whether this time is going to be hopeful or disappointing.

The rest of the day, I went through the motions. I scheduled appointments, requested results, drove to class, and talked with my peers as if nothing had happened.

As I drove back, the therapist in me realized that I skipped the processing. I had gone right to disconnecting from my body in an effort to survive.

I began allowing space for the tears, anxieties, and sheer terror around the potential of more treatments. The heaviness and magnitude of the situation wash over me, and the uncertainty and fear are something I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

I don’t know how this story ends, because I am a story continuing. This is a miracle in itself.

What I do know is this: hope can’t depend on having a pain-free day. It can’t depend on perfect scans, miracle treatments, or certainty. I hold hope now, and I will continue to, regardless of what happens medically. I hold hope for good moments, good days, and little pockets of relief and beauty that exist despite it all.

Because if I wait to feel peace until my medical life makes sense, I will spend my whole life defeated, heartbroken, and on pause.

Bad things happen to good people, and sometimes we end up living inside someone else’s horror story. But even here, I’m learning that peace is still possible. I can root myself in hope that isn’t dependent on outcomes. And choosing to live from that place has been the most freeing, hopeful, and liberating shift of all.

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I met my younger self for coffee today. She was sixteen, meeting me ten years later. She showed up early, bound by a schedule that must go exactly to plan. She was nervous about what I thought of her. I showed up a few minutes late, having learned the flexibility life requires, but still valuing her time.

At Starbucks, she ordered a tall skinny caramel macchiato with nonfat milk and no whipped cream, though secretly, she wanted a short. She loved the taste but wouldn’t admit it, convincing herself that coffee was too sugary. She’d tell me she couldn’t have too much. I ordered a hot chocolate the way it’s made and say yes to whipped cream, because I have developed a friendship with my body and know that caffeine isn’t always the way she prefers to be loved. I looked my younger self with kindness and understanding, knowing the guilt fades a little.

She wore silver ballet flats and a short white dress with baby pink flowers, sleeveless with a skater skirt. Her hair is neatly finger curled into ringlets. She kept adjusting the dress where the waist cinched, trying to keep it from hugging her insecurities. She finds the dress beautiful and wore it to impress me, wanting me to see her beauty. I showed up in a sweatshirt and leggings, with tennis shoes to care for a foot injury. Comfort, physically and emotionally, has become my priority. My hair, naturally wavy, has embraced imperfection, healing after the damage of flat irons and food restriction. I recognize the struggles I’ve faced this year, and I offer myself compassion for the courage to dress comfortably.

She spoke softly, unsure of her words and how to express them. She watches me carefully to assess if I would judge her. I looked at her with curiosity, openness, and validation for her experiences. I reminded her that it’s okay to not be okay, and to take the time she needs to practice vulnerability. We both laughed through the conversation, her smile plastered, and mine halfway genuine.

We both know deep pain in shared and differing ways, and I spoke with a confidence that she wouldn’t recognize in herself for years to come. I told her all about the things that I am doing in my life, and cautiously and openly discuss the hardship that I have survived and continue to face. She looked at me scared, but softened as she saw the hope and strength in my eyes. She was proud of me. She was in awe of me.

She looked at me with pained eyes full of thoughts and secrets. She was fully convinced she was alone, unloved, and better off not here. She is shocked to be in the room with me, ten years later. I look at her with sadness, feeling the weight of her pain and the knowledge of what she will walk through. Simultaneously, I smiled softly, knowing she would find her own strength and hope- something that she doesn’t know she has. I told her that even in the darkest times, she would be the hopeful one, even when things seemed impossible. I let her know that I was always here for her. She looked at me, uncertain but comforted, and I asked for her phone to give her my contact information.

Before we left, she asked, “So, have you found someone yet?” I laughed, knowing exactly what she was asking. She wanted to know if I was married, or if I had kids. I smiled and told her I am working on it. I remind her that sometimes, things don’t always happen on the timeline that we expect or want, and that is okay. She looked at me with sadness, knowing that her trajectory was filled with always feeling behind- always the last to start dating and the one who can’t find love. I remind her that the strength and skills that we build in solitude would make us the best wife and mother, and learning how to peacefully be with ourselves is invaluable.

As we get up to leave, I paid the bill, wanting to take care of her and love her the way she deserves. She initially protests, not used to receiving kindness and not wanting to owe me or put me out. Outwardly, she smiled and thanked me, with guilt in her eyes. She didn’t know how to accept help or love. All she had known was self-reliance. I gave her a hug, reminding her she is worthy of love, and I can be the one to give it to her.

As we parted ways, I knew she would think about this coffee date for a long time. I will, too. We both need these moments of genuine connection in a nonjudgmental space. We both need to be seen. Maybe next time, she’ll be ready to trust me more. Regardless, I smile, knowing that she will slowly begin to own her confidence and her power.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she has strength in her that is unimaginable.

I wonder if it’s ever going to end. I wonder if my nights will always be accompanied by throbbing and if my mornings will always be measured in levels of headache intensity before I’ve even opened my eyes.

People always hear my story and ask, “How do you do it?” They respond with shock and horror, asking how I continue on every day while living a story out of their worst nightmares. In all honesty, I ask myself the same question.

Perspective and Gratitude

The things that used to feel simple—driving, meeting a friend, writing a paper, grocery shopping, cleaning—now feel like immense accomplishments. Most days, they don’t happen at all, and if they do, they are the only event of the day. Because when pain becomes your full-time companion and managing it becomes your full-time job, you start living a different kind of life. A quieter one. A slower one. A resilient one, though different than what others might envision as “ideal.” But you grow. Personally, now, I savor going out to eat with friends, attending a gathering, the distraction that work brings, and lower-pain moments when I am lucky enough to get them.

When people ask me how I do it, I know that I have no choice but to exist in the world without crumbling completely. No one chooses to experience constant pain. No one chooses for throbbing pain or illness to greet you before your eyes are even open. However, I have no choice but to be strong, and to me, strength is as simple as waking up each day in the midst of it all.

Acceptance

What I have done is accepted. I have accepted that right now it is helpful to learn to coexist with “miss migraine,” my current companion, albeit uninvited, who joined me and has stuck like superglue to my life for one and a half years.

It has been one and a half years of hoping, praying, researching, and tracking. One and a half years of trying treatments that have failed. But I haven’t failed. I have done the bravest thing of all: I have found some peace in acceptance. Not fully, not always, but enough to breathe again. Enough to live with a little more confidence, even in small, quiet ways.

There was a time when I stopped counting how many months it had been, because months turned to years and I no longer could tell if the light was coming. Because counting the months felt like expecting an end date, which is almost like setting a trap: a place for hope to fail when the deadline passes. So, I stopped counting. Not because I gave up, but because I realized that I needed to learn how to be present in the here and now. Because living doesn’t always wait for healing.

The letdown is strong, but the living is stronger.

Author’s Note:

There is a lot that comes before “acceptance” in the stages of grief, and I’ve cycled through some of them and will likely cycle back, messy and out of order. The process is not linear, and I am not always in acceptance, but I find myself inching towards it in moments. Grief isn’t linear, and chronic illness has a whole lot of grief. If acceptance isn’t where you are at, please know that you are not doing anything wrong. You are exactly where you need to be, and there can be healing even through the pain, even if it takes time.

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Last summer, it was an apartment lease manager I called to pull my application. More recently, it was a customer service representative from the hospital after receiving a bill with more zeros than I could process.

My therapist has never heard me cry (which is not a flex, I know), but the customer service representative has.

Maybe it’s because there’s safety in knowing you won’t ever see someone again. Maybe it’s because over the phone, you’re just words. Or maybe it’s because it’s the one time I actually allow myself to feel everything. To admit that chronic pain is really hard.

As I talked to the customer service representative, I told her that I’ve tried everything over the last year, my medical bills are higher than I know how to afford, and the procedure I was just billed for was ineffective (not to mention traumatic), resulting in more bills from urgent care, neurologists, optometrists, and more. I told her it had been the worst year of my life.

She gave me the space to speak and tried to help me find a solution. When she asked what I’m expecting in terms of future medical bills, I told her, “I don’t know,” as my voice shook and very obviously caught.

And then she said gently: “What you’re going through sounds really overwhelming, honey, and financial assistance is a blessing for a lot of people if it works for you. I’m putting in an application for you, and I want you to know that whatever you’re going through, God is guiding you. He’s got you, and you will be cared for.”

My tears continued to flow. I thanked her, told her I appreciated her words more than she knew, and hung up. She let me hang up first.

Whether I’m a believer or not is not the point of this story, but rather it’s that a stranger witnessed my pain, validated it, and had the inclination to offer me words of comfort and hope.

As a therapist, I know the value of presence. The power of being there to witness pain and hold it, especially when you don’t have the power to change the outcome. Grief, trauma, and chronic pain shape and alter us. They add to our stories and often challenge our strength, resiliency, coping, and ability to keep going. But, they also reveal what it means to be human and how much we need each other.

I’ve been reminded, over and over, that life can change in an instant. We don’t get to choose our battles or beg our way out of them. But, it means something when someone else steps into the moment with us. It takes a lot to be someone who is brave enough to walk alongside someone in pain, suffering, or uncertainty.

We all have the capacity to be that person for others or to allow others to be that space for us.

This world is not meant to be walked alone. Compassion, kindness, and comfort can be exchanged in quick sentences that hold power for a lifetime. It can be offered in the voice of a stranger who reminds a girl in pain that she is cared for and not alone, even when she feels like she is.

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Last September, I ended up in the cold chair of the emergency room twice in one week. The symptoms felt cardiac, nothing short of terrifying. Describing these to everyone around me, I knew that something was very, very wrong. After hours of panic-attack level anxiety in the waiting room, three EKGs, and multiple IVs, my symptoms were written off as reflux. In hindsight, they were likely something more complex: the physical manifestation of unrelenting chronic pain that found control in restriction.

I tried to explain what was happening to those closest to me. I wasn’t eating. I didn’t want to eat. My body was shutting down, and in that moment, I realized: no one saw it for what it was. Not even my mom, the person who knows me best.

“But you were eating normally,” she still says.

Driving home from the ER, she told me, “You just choose not to eat for 18 hours. Just set alarms.”

And then:

“You don’t have an eating disorder.”

Don’t get me wrong — my mom and I are close. However, I can’t explain the kind of silence that follows a moment like that. To be invalidated by the person closest to you, to sit next to someone in a scary moment, and still feel completely unseen. It’s a kind of loneliness I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. It’s filled with shame and fear, and a growing thought that maybe I was wrong.

So, I repeated what I was told: It’s not serious. Maybe it’s just reflux. I’m probably being dramatic.

But deep down, something in me knew that things were not okay. If no one was going to help me, I needed to help myself. My body was screaming, and it needed to be heard.

The Recovery No One Saw

As a mental health professional, I will never recommend this, but I recovered alone.

I forced down soup, bread, and smoothies, choosing to eat even when I didn’t want to. I was too scared to get professional help without the support and encouragement of others. The idea of leaving school, paying for treatment, and admitting the need for help despite no one else agreeing was enough to send me spinning. I had no professional help or structured plan — only my gut, my intuition, and the sliver of clarity that said, “If you don’t show up for your body, no one else will. It is your home, and it deserves better than this.”

I wanted so badly to be hand-held through it, and for someone to take the time to sit with me, look closely, and see the danger and the pain within my situation. I needed someone, anyone, to say, “Let me help you.”

Diet Culture

My mother and I are close — closer than I am with anyone. Her dismissal was the hardest part, even though I know she didn’t mean harm. In advocacy strategies, I always include self-advocacy, as well as educating the people around you. This can become complicated in a world that is steeped in diet culture. Women are trained from childhood to believe that restrictive eating is normal, or even ideal. That skipping meals is discipline. That ignoring hunger is strength. That smaller is better. That being “in control” of what and how much we eat makes us more valuable. That health has a “look.”

These beliefs are so deeply rooted that we may not recognize what is happening to us or the people around us.

Until we end up in the ER.

And even then, sometimes diet culture can still make us question ourselves, or blind us to it.

The Need For Community

Community and connectedness are essential to healing. Someone to extend a hand when you can’t stand on your own. Someone to sit in the darkness without rushing to fix or dismiss it. Someone to remind you that your body deserves care even when you can’t believe it yourself. Not everyone has that support, but in all my years of research, I have found time and time again that social connectedness is the key to well-being. If you can find even one person that you feel safe with, this can keep you from experiencing pain in isolation. Lean on them when you need to, because we aren’t meant to recover alone.

The Knowing

I think I was closer to hospitalization than anyone realized, including myself. But my body fought for me when I couldn’t. Eventually, I learned to fight for myself.

One year later, I still feel the ripple effects of that time. The shame, fear, isolation, and physical symptoms. I still grieve the support that I didn’t have, and what I went through alone. But I’m here, and things are so, so much better.

I show up for myself now. Every day. I choose to trust my intuition, even when others don’t.

Because I knew something was wrong. And that knowing saved my life.

Author’s Note: If any part of this story resonates, you are not alone. Your pain is real, even if no one else sees it yet. You deserve help before it becomes an emergency. You deserve recovery that doesn’t come in isolation. You deserve to be believed.

Until the world catches up, I’ll believe you.

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Prompt: Who (or what) can you turn to in times of need?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!

As I searched the bookshelf for pieces that individually seemed cute and meaningful, I centered on a ladder. In just a few seconds, I had a few items in my hand that spoke to me, and I placed them in the sand with no clear plan.

As someone that who so meticulously planned, making an image that wasn’t pre-planned made me nervous.

I stepped back from the sand tray, admiring my little art project, thinking that it was cute but “dramatic” (how’s that for self-talk, am I right?) in my use of a dinosaur.

As I kept looking at the tray and analyzing it, I realized that I had created an image of my life laid out in miniature. A true metaphor for my life.

Symbols

At the center of it all is a T. rex. To me, the dinosaur represents my chronic migraine—a pain that has lasted almost two years straight. Every day, I wake up to it threatening me with its sensations, with its only goal as leading me to self-destruction. It’s a force that keeps me stuck on the left side of the ladder, where hopelessness lives, and it’s hard to see the possibility of ever crossing over.

The couch stands for the therapist’s chair—something I’ve avoided for a long time, because I didn’t feel ready to support others through my own pain. And yet, here I am, stepping into it and doing it scared.

The shells and ladder depict stepping stones towards something better. The shells specifically remind me of my first beach trip after my pain began. Granted, it was to the Mayo Clinic, but those days were filled with joy despite pain. They were quiet days of collecting shells, hope, and relief that there might be a way to something better. The shells and that memory let me know that no matter what, I’ll be okay.

The butterfly reminds me that there is still hope, a metamorphosis possible only after darkness.

The rose in full bloom depicts the possibility of growth and creating something beautiful, even if it looks different from what I once imagined.

The space in the tray matters, too. The open sand depicts a journey, and the time in between pain and growth. It’s the time necessary to grieve, learn how to live with what feels impossible, and rebuild around it.

I’ve spent much of my life oscillating between the dinosaur and the ladder. As a child, the T. rex was emotional abuse. As a teenager, it was anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder. As an adult, it is chronic pain. Each time I thought I was finally reaching the rose, something would pull me back down.

Despite the T. rex being present, coexisting around it are symbols of hope and a ladder, offering a path forward.

But maybe this sand tray is a reminder that it’s not over. Maybe this is take two. Maybe I’m still climbing.

Transformation

The title I gave my tray is “Transformation.” Not because I’m there yet, but because it’s what I hope for. It’s what I believe is still possible.

Pain doesn’t negate joy, growth, or the ability to build something new. I may always have the dinosaur beside me, but I can still climb the ladder, collect shells on my way up, and still bloom into something beautiful—as a person and as a counselor.

And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to fully believe that.

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A Note for You:

If you’re reading this and carrying your own “dinosaur” — whether it’s chronic pain, mental health struggles, grief, or something else that feels overwhelming — I want you to know this: with time, rest, self-compassion, community, and intentional self-care, pain and hope can be held simultaneously. Stillness and growth can be held simultaneously. Joy and pain can be held simultaneously. None of these are mutually exclusive.

Transformation doesn’t always mean the struggle disappears. Sometimes it means learning to build a life alongside it, to keep climbing, to keep collecting the small shells of joy along the way.

Your tray might look different than mine, but you’re not alone. Even with pain, there are still beautiful possibilities left for you, even if the narrative has shifted.

Prompt: What is an object(s) that would be in your tray right now?

Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!