From Rock Bottom to Rising Strong"

By Majid Ali
Published just now • 4 min read


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I used to think strength meant never breaking. That if I could just hold everything together—my thoughts, my feelings, my life—I’d be okay. But grief has a way of peeling back illusions. It shows you who you are when there’s nothing left to hold on to.

When everything fell apart, I didn’t recognize myself. The version of me that once laughed easily, that believed in bright tomorrows, felt like a stranger. All I could see was what I’d lost—love, stability, direction.

The pain didn’t hit all at once. It crept in quietly, like fog rolling in on a still morning. At first, I told myself it would pass. That I just needed a few days, maybe a week. But weeks turned into months, and I was still waking up to the same dull ache in my chest. Still pretending during the day and falling apart at night.

The hardest part wasn’t the loneliness. It was the silence—the kind that echoes in every room, that fills every empty space with the weight of memories. I’d sit on the couch, stare at the walls, and wonder how everything went so wrong so fast.

There were moments I wanted to give up. Not in a dramatic way, just... quietly. To disappear into the background of my own life and stop trying so hard to make sense of something senseless.

But then something unexpected happened.

One evening, while walking through the park, I saw a child chasing after a butterfly. It was such a small, ordinary thing, but something about the joy in that moment caught me off guard. For the first time in a long while, I smiled—genuinely, effortlessly.

That tiny flicker of light made me realize something important: I was still capable of feeling. Still capable of being moved. And if there was still life inside me, maybe there was still hope, too.

I began to rebuild, not in big, dramatic ways, but through small, intentional steps. I started journaling—just a few lines each day. I made my bed each morning, not because I felt like it, but because I needed a reason to start the day. I walked. I cooked simple meals. I sat with my feelings instead of avoiding them.

Some days were heavy. Others, surprisingly light. Healing didn’t come in a straight line; it came in spirals—moments of clarity followed by moments of doubt. But I kept going. Kept choosing to show up, even when it was hard.

I stopped searching for answers and started asking better questions. Instead of “Why did this happen to me?” I began to ask, “What can I learn from this?” “Who am I now, and who do I want to become?”

Slowly, I found pieces of myself in new places—in the rhythm of morning runs, in the mess of trying (and failing) to bake bread, in long conversations with friends I thought I’d lost. I even picked up a paintbrush again for the first time in years. The canvas didn’t care if I was broken. It just gave me a place to feel whole for a little while.

I learned that self-worth isn’t something someone else can give you. It’s something you uncover when you’re stripped bare—when there’s nothing left to hide behind, and you realize you’re still enough.

One night, as I sat on my balcony watching the stars blink quietly above the city, I whispered a thank you—to the heartbreak that shattered me, to the emptiness that taught me how to be full on my own, to the quiet strength that had been there all along, waiting to be noticed.

I’m still healing. I probably always will be. But the person I’ve become—the one who found light in the darkest places—is someone I’m learning to love deeply.

If you’re in that dark place right now, I want you to know: this isn’t the end of your story. It’s the start of something you can’t yet see. Give yourself time. Grace. Space to feel.

Rock bottom is not your grave. It’s your foundation.

From here, you don’t just rise—you rebuild.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll rise stronger than you ever were before.


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