Healing didn’t happen all at once. But it happened in dishes, sunlight, and small, stupid victories.

It didn’t start with anything big. No major meltdown. Just… dishes. Sitting in the sink like they were waiting for someone else to blink first.

Three days old? Four? I honestly couldn’t tell you. They just sat there, crusty and gross, smelling like guilt and maybe something that used to be pasta. I kept saying, “I’ll do them tomorrow.” But yeah—I’d said that yesterday too. And the day before that.

Was it depression? I don’t know. Maybe. But it didn’t feel like what people always talk about. It felt like fog. Thick and dull. Just… heavy.

Like being underwater but pretending I wasn’t. Thoughts didn’t come in straight lines—they echoed. Felt like they were bouncing around in someone else’s head. Or maybe mine, but from far away.

Then there was the chair.

Cheap blue plastic one. Tucked in a corner like it knew I’d eventually find it. One day I sat down. Didn’t plan to. Just did.

And then… I stayed there. For hours, I think. Not because I was deep in some kind of thought spiral—honestly, I just didn’t move. Forgot how to start wanting to.

I stared at the wall like maybe it’d blink or shift or… I don’t know. Make sense.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it. Again.

Inside, everything felt like broken clocks. Nothing ticking right. Time felt... weird. Some minutes just vanished. Others dragged like they were limping.

Even hearing my own name in my head felt off. Like I’d borrowed it from someone else and forgot how it used to fit.

No big sob story. No dramatic scene. Just this slow, quiet disappearing.

I stopped texting back. Then I stopped picking up calls. Then I started avoiding mirrors.

Didn’t recognize the person in them anyway. My face looked like someone had tried to draw me from memory and kind of messed it up.

And then came the silence.

Not peaceful silence. Not the kind that wraps around you gently. This one pressed down. Watched. Waited.

But somewhere in all of that... something held on. Not hope, really. Just a tiny voice that asked, “What if this isn’t it?” And weirdly, that question stuck.

There wasn’t some grand shift. No lightning bolt or big moment. Just… something really small.

One day—I think it was morning? Or afternoon? Doesn’t matter—I cracked the window. Not wide. Just a bit. Enough to let something in.

Air, mostly. And this smell—wet pavement, maybe traffic, and something I couldn’t name. Something that felt alive.

And that day, I moved too. Just from the chair to the bed. Which sounds ridiculous, I know. But at the time, it felt like moving a mountain.

I cried. Not because I broke down. More like… because I remembered what feeling felt like.

No big meaning behind it. Just me. Salty cheeks. Still breathing.

And this time, I didn’t wipe the tears away.

I let them fall. Let them do the talking.

They said, I missed me. That maybe I wasn’t completely gone. That healing, if that’s what this was, doesn’t walk a straight path. It loops. Wanders. Trips over itself.

And there were still crappy days.

I still ghosted people sometimes. Forgot meals. Zoned out, staring at the walls.

But I left the window open. And somehow, that started to matter.

Some nights, I wrote stuff down. Letters. Half-thoughts. Stuff I’d never send. Some were to people who wouldn’t get it. Some to past versions of me I barely remembered.

I even wrote one to the chair. Just… thanks, I guess. For being there when I couldn’t be.

Then one morning, I pulled the curtains open.

Sunlight came in like it owned the place.

It hit the clutter, the dust, and this version of me I hadn’t looked at properly in weeks. And weirdly… the room kind of exhaled.

So I did the dishes. One plate. Then another.

Put on some music. Quiet at first. Then louder. Loud enough to sing along, even if I was off-key.

I remembered most of the lyrics. I think. Sang anyway. Ended up dancing with a sponge and laughing like an idiot.

Turns out healing might look like that. It might sound like bad singing and smell like lemon dish soap.

It’s not tidy. Not some Instagram-worthy transformation.

It’s clumsy. Slow. Real.

I read a poem once—it said, “You do not have to be good. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

Didn’t get it back then. I think maybe I’m starting to now.

Because healing doesn’t have to look impressive. Doesn’t need to be loud or poetic. Sometimes it’s just getting up and trying again. That’s it.

Sometimes it’s sitting in a sunbeam with coffee and no big thoughts.

And sometimes it’s this—writing it all out. Not because I have answers. But because I stopped pretending I needed to.

I still screw up. Still have weird, sideways days.

But I don’t ghost myself anymore.

I’ve learned to sit with sadness without setting up camp there.

Learned that breaking doesn’t mean broken.

I’m not the dark I sat in.

I’m the light that got tired of waiting and left.

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