For a long time after sexual assault, my body felt like evidence rather than home. I noticed it through symptoms, discomfort, and fear. I thought about what itβ¦
Ten years ago, I thought recovery meant reaching a finish line. I imagined that one day food would become ordinary, mirrors would lose their power, and my bodyβ¦
For a long time, I thought coming out was supposed to be a single brave conversation. In my imagination, I would gather everyone I loved, say the right words,β¦
Every morning, before I answer a message or scroll through the news, I reach for the same coffee mug. It is ordinary in every visible way: ceramic, slightlyβ¦
There are days when gratitude feels easy to find. It is in the first warm sip of coffee, a message from someone I love, the rabbit stretching out in a patch ofβ¦
Some days, healing feels like a belief I can hold with both hands. Other days, it feels like a sentence I repeat because I am afraid that, without it, the painβ¦
I used to think joy arrived on its own. It was something I expected to feel after finishing a difficult task, reaching a goal, healing from an old wound, orβ¦
For a long time, I thought my mental health was a private problem with a private solution. I believed I needed to become calmer, stronger, and less affected byβ¦
For a long time, shame felt less like an emotion and more like a room I had been locked inside. It had no obvious door, only a collection of rules: do not sayβ¦
For a long time, I treated relapse like evidence that I had failed at recovery. I could speak openly about anxiety, trauma, body image, and the complicatedβ¦