I want to tell you something

of beautiful devastation

I want to tell you something. Something about the last five years. Five years of grief. Of heartache. Of falling in love—with myself, with the world, and with the humans in my life.

This week, I’ve been revisiting old Instagram posts, and they’ve reminded me of past versions of myself. Versions shaped by growth, by learning, by the excavation it takes to uncover a more honest self. It was not easy. It required a deep dive into the shadowy places of my soul—places full of shame, sorrow, heartache, loss, yearning, and ego. God, so much ego.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t fun. It was just a dark, endless tunnel I had to walk through.

The truth is, I threw a tantrum at the entrance to that tunnel. I couldn’t see the end—only the darkness ahead. But when I looked behind me, my life was in flames. I had blown it up, and there was no turning back. The choice was to move forward or stay stuck. And for me, being stuck was worse than any scary-ass tunnel.

At first, I managed one step at a time. But somewhere along the way, I got kicked down. The wind knocked out of me. The sorrow, pain, and trauma I had avoided my whole life were suddenly there, weighted on my back. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move forward. For a while, I thought I might die there—and I didn’t care. I just wanted the pain to end.

Sobbing to my therapist, I’d ask over and over, “But when will I feel better?” Begging her to give me a timeline. All she could say was, “You will.”

I knew that. I knew there would be an end to the darkness. Somehow, I just had to keep going.

Prozac helped. So did my therapist, my sister, and my closest friends. They’d remind me, “Look how far you’ve come. You can’t quit here.”

So I didn’t.

I started crawling. The tiniest movements toward a truer life. One micro-moment at a time. And slowly, it started to feel lighter—or maybe I just got stronger. Eventually, I got off my knees and shuffled forward. One step in front of the other.

It wasn’t all dark, of course. Little fireflies lit up the tunnel—small, fleeting reminders of love, of hope, of the life I knew I wanted. A blooming tree. A note from a friend. The taste of a perfectly ripe persimmon. A hot bath on a cool night. The kindness of a stranger. They kept me moving, though it was hard not to let the darkness engulf me.

Somehow, I kept walking.

The thing I want to tell you is this: I made it through. There is light here. There is joy and beauty—so much of it—on the other side.

It wasn’t any one specific change in circumstance that got me here, though there were many along the way. It was an internal shift. A new strength and deep love for myself.

Since then, there have been moments of returned darkness. Flare-ups of old stories. Spirals into panic, as I continue to grow and stretch. I know there will be more dark caves to walk through. Lower lows. Higher highs. And, of course, all the mundane days in between.

But today, on the darkest day of the year, I feel gratitude.

Gratitude for the wisdom of darkness. For the nights spent in a puddle on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m. For knowing, deep in my bones, that I am the one who can get me through.

Gratitude for the understanding that this life is full of light and dark and every shade of shadow in between.

All of it is devastating. All of it is beautiful.

I’m so glad you’re here.
xo.a