The Winding Road to Healing

Healing isn’t linear.

People say that like a mantra. You’ll see it printed on mugs, stitched into Instagram quotes, or whispered like advice in quiet corners of therapy sessions. But until you've lived it—really lived it—you don’t understand the weight of those words.

I didn’t.

Not until life cracked me open and taught me what healing really looks like: not a clean staircase upward, but a winding road of hills, potholes, setbacks, and still—somehow—progress.

This is the story of how I broke, how I tried to put myself back together, and how I learned that broken doesn’t mean beyond repair.

The Breaking Point

There’s rarely a single moment that causes the crash—it’s usually a slow build of pressure, like water under a dam.

For me, it was the combination of a toxic job, the unexpected loss of my father, and the quiet unraveling of a relationship I thought would last forever. Each piece chipped away at me until I was surviving days on caffeine, burying my emotions under productivity, and convincing myself I was “fine.”

Then one morning, I wasn’t.

I was sitting in my car in the office parking lot, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the building. My chest was tight. My vision blurred. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

That was my first panic attack.

It wasn’t dramatic. No one else saw. I drove home. Canceled everything. Collapsed onto the couch and cried until my ribs ached.

I didn’t know it then, but that day would become the starting point of something bigger: my healing journey.

Therapy and the Uncomfortable Mirror

I started therapy reluctantly.

I wasn’t sure if talking to a stranger would help. But after weeks of struggling to sleep, spiraling thoughts, and numb days, I figured I had nothing to lose.

My therapist didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t give me magical answers. Instead, she handed me a metaphorical mirror and asked hard questions:

Why did I equate rest with laziness?

Why did I feel unworthy unless I was achieving something?

Why did I keep tolerating relationships that drained me?

These questions weren’t easy. Some days, therapy left me more tired than before. But it was the kind of tired that comes from finally doing the work—digging into my past, confronting trauma, and unlearning the beliefs that had held me hostage for years.

And here’s the thing: some weeks, I felt amazing—strong, clear-headed, optimistic. Other weeks, I slipped. I ghosted friends. I skipped sessions. I cried over things I thought I’d already “healed from.”

That’s when I first realized healing wasn’t a straight line. It was a spiral. Sometimes you return to old wounds, not because you’ve failed, but because you’re now strong enough to go deeper.

The Loneliness of Growth

Healing changed me—and not everyone around me liked it.

Some friendships faded. Some people didn’t know how to sit with me when I was quiet instead of bubbly. Some were uncomfortable with the boundaries I finally began to set.

I remember once telling a friend, “I’m not coming out tonight. I need rest,” and she replied, “You’ve changed.”

She meant it as a dig, but she wasn’t wrong.

I had changed.

I stopped over-apologizing. I stopped saying “yes” when I meant “no.” I stopped pretending I was okay when I wasn’t.

It was liberating. And lonely.

No one tells you how isolating healing can feel. You start to see the world differently. You crave deeper conversations, healthier habits, quieter spaces. Not everyone follows you into that new chapter.

But the loneliness taught me something, too: that being alone and being lonely aren’t the same thing. I was building a home within myself for the first time in years.

Small Wins, Big Meaning

One of the most profound lessons I learned is that healing doesn’t always look like huge transformations. Sometimes, it’s in the tiniest victories:

Getting out of bed on a day when the weight feels unbearable.

Answering a message instead of disappearing.

Cooking yourself a real meal instead of skipping dinner.

Saying “I need help.”

One night, months into therapy, I lit a candle, played soft music, and wrote in my journal without an agenda. Just wrote what I felt. That night, I slept better than I had in weeks.

That was a win.

Another day, I walked past a bakery and bought myself a slice of cake just because I wanted to. No shame. No “I didn’t earn it.” Just joy.

Another win.

Healing isn’t always about getting back to who you were. Sometimes, it’s about meeting the version of you that never got the chance to exist before now.

The Relapse That Reminded Me

I wish I could say the progress lasted forever. It didn’t.

A year later, I relapsed into a dark spell of depression. It crept up on me slowly—like fog rolling in—until I realized I was avoiding therapy, sleeping too much, and drowning in self-doubt.

At first, I felt ashamed. Hadn’t I done the work? Wasn’t I supposed to be “better”?

But my therapist reminded me: “Healing isn’t about never falling. It’s about how you rise.”

That relapse wasn’t a failure. It was a reminder that healing is a lifelong practice. I knew what to do. I reached out. I spoke up. I reconnected with my tools. And slowly, I found my rhythm again.

A Letter to the One Still Struggling

If you’re reading this and feeling like you're behind, broken, or too far gone, I want to tell you something:

You're not.

Healing doesn’t look like one grand comeback. It’s made up of messy mornings, quiet courage, setbacks, restarts, and relentless hope.

You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You just have to keep going.

Some days, progress means showing up. Some days, it means pulling back. Both are valid. Both are worthy.

And most of all—you are still healing, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

The Moral of the Story

Healing isn’t linear.

It bends. It pauses. It breaks and rebuilds. And that’s okay.

You don’t need to be perfect to be healing. You just need to be willing—to feel, to face, to fall, and to try again.

The beauty of healing lies not in reaching a final destination, but in becoming the kind of person who treats their own scars with softness instead of shame.

If you’re still walking the winding road, keep going.

Even when the path seems unclear, your steps matter.

And somewhere along the way, you’ll look back and realize—you were never lost. You were becoming.