They Called It a Breakdown. I Call It the Beginning

I remember the exact moment my world cracked open.

It was a Tuesday morning—ordinary by all appearances. I was sitting at my desk at the marketing agency where I’d worked for seven years. My inbox was flooded, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and my boss had just cc’d me on another passive-aggressive email. I should’ve been used to it. But that day, I wasn’t.

My heart began to race. My vision blurred. The screen in front of me dissolved into a meaningless blur of light. I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door. And then I slid to the cold tile floor and cried like a child. Not the silent tears I’d grown used to. These were heaving sobs, the kind you feel in your chest for days after.

By the end of that week, I’d left my job, ended a toxic relationship, and canceled every single plan on my calendar.

To most people, it looked like I was falling apart. Friends started texting me “Just checking in!” with that careful tone, the one people use when they’re worried but don’t want to make it worse. My parents were confused. My therapist called it a “major depressive episode.” My ex called it “melodramatic.” Society called it a breakdown.

But I call it the beginning.

Because here’s the thing: I wasn’t breaking down—I was waking up.

For as long as I could remember, I’d lived on autopilot. Good grades, good job, good apartment. I was checking all the boxes society had laid out for me like a neat little to-do list for a successful life. But it never felt like mine. I played the part so well I forgot I was acting. And in the process, I buried everything real—my emotions, my dreams, my voice.

When I walked away from everything, it wasn’t rebellion. It was rescue.

At first, it was terrifying. Without the noise of constant busyness and burnout, I had to sit with myself. And I realized I didn’t even know who I was. Not really. I knew what I did for work. I knew how to people-please. I knew how to smile and nod. But I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know how to rest without guilt, how to say no without explanation, how to exist without proving my worth.

So I started small. I read books that made me cry and journals that cracked something open inside me. I went on long walks with no destination. I meditated, even though I sucked at it. I deleted social media for a while and started painting again—badly, but joyfully. I gave myself permission to be messy, to be lost, to be in progress.

And slowly, I started to come back to life.

Not the life I had before—but something deeper, more honest. I began writing again, something I hadn’t done since college. At first, just for myself. Then for others. I posted a personal essay online about burnout and identity. It went viral. Strangers emailed me, saying I’d put words to something they didn’t know how to explain. That’s when I realized: my so-called breakdown was actually a breakthrough.

There’s something liberating about hitting rock bottom. You stop being afraid of falling—because you’ve already fallen. And that’s when you find out what you’re made of. Not the polished version you show the world, but the raw, real self that’s been waiting patiently beneath the surface.

Today, my life looks nothing like it used to.

I freelance as a writer now. I live in a smaller apartment but somehow feel more abundant than I ever did before. I surround myself with people who see me, not just my resume. I still have bad days. I still cry sometimes. But now, I honor those moments instead of hiding them.

If you're reading this and feel like you're falling apart, I want to tell you something no one told me: maybe you're not broken. Maybe you're breaking open.

They called it a breakdown. I call it the beginning.

The beginning of becoming.

The beginning of coming home—to yourself.