The Day

I don’t remember the exact day I stopped feeling like myself. It wasn’t a single moment, or a big breakdown. It was quiet. Slow. Like a light dimming so gently, you don’t even notice until you’re sitting in darkness.

At 27, I had everything people said I should be thankful for—a stable job, a place to live, food on my plate. But inside, I was empty. Not the kind of sadness where you cry all the time. It was deeper than that. I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t sad, but I wasn’t happy either. I was numb.

Every morning felt the same. Wake up, shower, work, come home, sleep. Repeat. There was no joy in my routine, no spark. I stopped picking up calls. I ignored messages. I even stopped listening to music, which used to be my comfort. I started wondering, “What’s the point of all this?”

But I still woke up each day.

One rainy evening, while cleaning out a drawer I hadn’t touched in years, I found an old photo of myself. I was about six, covered in dirt and smiling wide with a missing front tooth. My hair was wild, my shirt stained with ice cream, and my eyes were full of life.

I stared at the photo for a long time. That child looked so happy, so full of dreams. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed like that. I couldn’t remember the last time I even felt like I was really living.

That night, I put on an old hoodie and went for a walk. It had stopped raining, but the streets were still wet. The air was cold and smelled fresh. I had no goal, no direction—I just wanted to move. No music, no phone. Just me and the sound of my footsteps.

I walked past houses with glowing windows, imagining the lives inside. I passed a man sitting on a bench, feeding birds. He looked up, smiled gently, then went back to his task. That small smile felt more real than anything I’d experienced in weeks.

I found a quiet bench and sat down. The world was peaceful. For the first time in a while, I felt something. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t sadness either. It was awareness. Like I was finally noticing the world again.

That was the beginning.

The next morning, I made a decision. Not a big one. Not the kind where you quit your job or move to a new city. Just a simple promise to myself:

“I will try.”

Try to feel. Try to be present. Try to be a little better than yesterday.

So, I started small. I made my bed. I took a longer shower. I made myself breakfast instead of skipping it. I played soft music in the background. I opened the curtains and let the sun in. I wasn’t doing these things because I had to—I was doing them because I wanted to remember what it felt like to care.

That evening, I found an old notebook. I started writing in it. Just a few lines each night. Nothing fancy. Sometimes just:

“Today was okay.”

“I didn’t cry today.”

“I smiled once, for real.”

Those small entries felt like victories.

After a week, I cleaned out my closet. It felt like I was getting rid of the weight I didn’t even know I was carrying. Tucked inside a box, I found an old sketchbook. I used to draw as a teen—nothing professional, just small doodles that made me happy.

I picked up a pencil and began to draw again. My hands were stiff, the lines messy. But I kept going. A flower. A face. A city skyline. I lost track of time. That night, I slept with a small smile on my face.

The next day, I scanned one of the drawings and shared it anonymously in an art group online. The likes didn’t matter. But one comment hit me:

“This has so much emotion. Please don’t stop.”

That comment meant the world. Someone saw me—even if they didn’t know me. That was enough to keep me going.

As weeks passed, my world started to open again.

I reached out to an old friend. We hadn’t spoken in over a year. I told her the truth—that I’d been struggling, feeling lost. She didn’t try to fix me. She just listened. And in her silence, I felt safe.

I joined a local art class—not to become an artist, but to be around people again. I met others who were also healing in their own ways. Some were quiet. Some were open. But we all shared one thing: we were trying.

In class, we painted with colors that matched our moods. Some days I painted with grey and blue. Some days with orange and gold. Art became my therapy. It helped me express what words couldn’t.

I also started walking more. I stopped using headphones during walks. I listened to birds, cars, children playing. I looked at trees, clouds, shadows. The world felt alive again. And slowly, so did I.

There were still bad days. Days when I didn’t want to get up. Days when I felt the numbness creeping back in like a fog. But the difference now was—I didn’t run from it. I acknowledged it.

Some days, “trying” looked like brushing my teeth and going back to bed. And that was okay. I reminded myself that healing wasn’t a straight line. I didn’t need to be perfect. I just needed to be present.

I read more books. I journaled. I learned to say no without guilt. I unfollowed people who made me feel small. I stopped comparing my journey to others. I reminded myself that some people walk fast, and some people walk slow. But everyone’s path is different.

I began to feel proud of myself—not for big achievements, but for choosing to stay. For choosing to keep trying.

One day, something unexpected happened.

A young woman in my art class pulled me aside. She looked nervous.

“I just wanted to say… your art inspires me. I joined this class because of the sketches you posted online. I’ve been dealing with anxiety for years, and seeing your work made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to cry, not because I was sad—but because someone else saw value in my struggle.

That moment made me realize something:

Every step you take toward healing, no matter how small, can become someone else’s light.

Today, I’m not fully “healed.” I still have days where I feel lost. But I also have days full of light, laughter, and color. Days where I dance around the kitchen. Days where I cry and feel strong for it. Days where I feel proud of the person I’m becoming.

I now believe that life isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being real. About falling and standing back up. About choosing to live, even when it’s hard.

And above all, it’s about remembering this:

You are not broken. You are becoming.

To anyone reading this who feels like they’ve lost themselves:

Please don’t give up. I know how dark it can feel. I know how heavy life can get. But I promise you, the smallest effort to care for yourself matters.

Make your bed. Take a walk. Water a plant. Draw a bad sketch. Call someone. Or just sit outside and breathe.

You don’t need to fix everything today.

Just try.

Try for yourself. Try for that child version of you who once believed in magic. Try because the world still has so many sunsets left for you to see.

And if no one has told you lately:

You matter. Your story matters. Your healing matters.

Keep going.

We’re all rooting for you.