How I Survived My Darkest Year

I don't remember the exact moment things started to fall apart.

That's the tricky thing about darkness - it doesn't always arrive like a storm. Sometimes, it seeps in slowly, like ink in water, until everything is tinted with it and you're no longer sure what the original color was.

For me, it was the year after everything had looked like it was finally coming together.

I had just graduated. I had plans. I had people. I had purpose.

And then I didn't.

The Unraveling

It started small.

I stopped replying to texts.

Then I stopped initiating conversations.

Then I stopped going out altogether.

"I'm just tired," I said.

And I was. But not the kind of tired sleep can fix.

The weight I carried was invisible, but itfollowed me everywhere - into showers, into classrooms, into dreams. I found myself crying in the bathroom for no reason, lying to friends about being busy, and staring at the ceiling at 3 AM wondering why everything felt so... wrong.

I was surrounded by people, but lonelier than I'd ever been.

I had opportunities, but no drive to take them.

I had a life, but no will to live it.

It didn't feel like I was in pain all the time.

That's what confused me.

I wasn't sad, exactly. I just felt... nothing.

As if someone had turned the volume of the world all the way down and I was just watching everything from behind a pane of glass.

When Rock Bottom Doesn't Announce Itself

Rock bottom is rarely one event.

It's usually the slow erosion of things you didn't even realize mattered until they were gone.

For me, it was the day I realized I hadn't spoken to anyone - not even my family - for almost a week.

I hadn't showered in days. I hadn't left my bed except to go to the bathroom. I had scrolled through my phone endlessly but felt no desire to actually connect.

That night, I remember looking in the mirror and barely recognizing myself. My eyes were dull. My expression empty. My reflection felt like a stranger.

And then, without thinking, I whispered:

"I can't do this anymore."

It wasn't a dramatic cry. It wasn't for anyone else to hear.

But something about saying it out loud shifted something in me.

Because for the first time in a long time... I admitted I wasn't okay.

The Tiny Turning Point

I didn't get better overnight.

I wish healing worked like magic. It doesn't.

It's more like gardening - you clear the weeds, plant seeds, wait, and hope something grows.

My first seed was therapy.

It took me weeks to actually schedule the appointment. I convinced myself I didn't need it, that I wasn't "bad enough," that others had it worse. But when I finally sat across from someone who listened without judgement, I felt seen in a way I hadn't in months.

I learned to name the things I had bern afraid to say:

• I was grieving a version of myself I no longer recognized.
• I was burnt out from trying to meet everyone's expectations but my own.
• I was quietly carrying shame, fear, and self-doubt that I had never unpacked.

And slowly, through small conversations and quiet relevations, I began to understand that what I was feeling had a name.

Depression.

The Rebuilding

I wish I could give you a checklist that says:

• Go to therapy ✔️
• Meditate ✔️
• Drink water ✔️
• Boom, healed.

But recovery doesn't work like that.

Some days, I still felt like I was drowning. But now I had a lifeline.

• Brush my teeth.
• Go for a walk.
• Text a friend back.
• Eat something that wasn't instant noodles.

Some days, that one thing was getting out of bed. And on those days, that was enough.

Eventually, the fog began to lift - slowly, quietly.

I started noticing the sky again.

The way sunlight filtered through my curtains. The sound of my mom humming while cooking dinner.

They were small moments. But they mattered. Because I was present enough to notice them.

What Helped Me Survive

Besides therapy, here are the real things that helped:

1. One friend who didn't give up one me.

She kept checking in, even when I didn't reply. She sent memes. Left voice notes. Sometimes just said, "No need to reply, I'm here." She never pushed. She stayed.

2. Writing.

I started journaling again. Not deep poetic entries - just brain dumps. "I feel numb today." "I miss the old me." "I want to get better."

It helped. Writing helped me process what I couldn't say out loud.

3. Letting go of perfection.

I stopped pretending to be fine all the time. I allowed myself to be messy, unproductive, human. And that shift - choosing grace over guilt - changed everything.

Not a Happy Ending, But an Honest One

This isn't a story with a shiny resolution. I didn't become a new person or achieve some massive goal.

But I did survive.

And in surviving, I learned that:

• Darkness doesn't mean you're broken.
• Healing is not linear.
• Needing help isn't weakness - it's wisdom.

I still have bad days. Days where the old weight creeps back in. But now I have tools. I have support. I have the memory that I made it through once - and I can again.

If You're in Your Darkest Year

Please hear this:

• You are not lazy.
• You are not weak.
• You are not too much, or not enough.

You are human. And humans break sometimes. But we also heal.

Reach out. Even if your voice shakes. Even if all you can say is "I don't know what's wrong." That's enough.

You're not alone.

And if no one else has told you today:

I'm proud of you. For being here. For reading this. For breathing.

That's a start.

And sometimes, the start is everything.

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you" - Rumi.