Recovery isn’t linear. It’s more like a winding path through a thick forest—sometimes I walk with clarity, sometimes I trip over roots I didn’t see coming. There are stretches of stillness where nothing seems to change, and then suddenly, growth bursts through like wildflowers after rain.
There were days I felt like bare ground. Nothing left. Just the ache of what had been taken, broken, or left behind. But even the earth knows how to hold space for what’s next. Even the soil knows how to rebuild.
I’ve learned that healing isn’t a destination—it’s how I walk through the mess. Some mornings, the fog doesn’t lift, but I still take the next step. Other times, I feel a flicker of light—small, but real—and I hold onto it.
The road to recovery isn’t paved with certainty. It’s made of slow moments, honest pauses, and deep breaths. Of learning to be gentle with myself when everything inside wants to rush ahead. Of trusting that, like the seasons, I’ll find my rhythm again.
I’m not who I was. I’m not who I’ll be. But here, in this in-between, I’m learning how to live again—with roots deeper, heart softer, and a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.