Healing in Pieces

Healing in Pieces

Over the course of three deeply arduous years, I navigated life through a thick, nameless fog.

A first, I rose beneath the crushing weight of something I could not articulate, a heaviness pressing against my chest, rendering every breath laborious. I moved through my days encased in a kind of emotional paralysis, performing the motions of living while feeling utterly detached from them. By evening, I would collapse,  haunted by the absence of joy. I no longer laughed. I no longer wrote. I no longer recognised the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

At first, I told myself it was fatigue and that perhaps I just needed rest. But no amount of sleep could soothe the quiet ache that had settled deep inside. The truth was starker: I was not tired. I was deeply unwell.

In my culture, depression is rarely spoken of. It is often diminished or reframed as weakness, or spiritual failing. Therapy, when mentioned at all, is seen as an indulgence for others, not something we are taught to pursue. We are conditioned to press on in silence, to suffer with dignity, to wear resilience like armour even as we break beneath it.

Eventually, silence became impossible. I did what once felt unthinkable: I reached out. Sitting before a therapist for the first time, I confessed the truth I had long suppressed: “I don’t feel like myself.”

That moment was not a cure, but a beginning.

Therapy did not provide instant clarity, but it offered something far more precious, space. Space to breathe, to unravel, to name my pain without shame. Slowly, I began piecing myself back together, one careful step at a time.

Music became my companion—songs like Brighter Days and Rescue were lifelines, whispering promises of hope in moments when I could scarcely believe in it. Writing returned to me like a lost friend, giving shape to feelings I couldn’t yet voice. Solitude,  became sacred. In its stillness, healing crept in quietly.

But perhaps most essential was returning to my passions. Storytelling. Photography. Cooking. Travel. These weren’t just hobbies. They were gateways back to myself. They reminded me that beneath the pain, something radiant still lived. Reconnecting with those forgotten joys grounded me, gave me glimpses of light in the darkest stretch of night.

I am not the person I was before. I may never be. And perhaps that is its own kind of grace.

But I feel again. I breathe without flinching. I carry hope.

And that, truly, is enough.