I’m just going to dive right in, this year has been bad. My anxiety has been at an all time high, I’ve had writer’s block for months, and I’ve spent most of this year floating in my grief.
I rang in the new year on a mission trip with some of my church family. It was an incredible trip, eye opening for me in so many ways, but when I was on my way home I got news that forced my eyes closed. I remember feeling clear contentment at New Years. I don’t remember how I got there and I don’t know why I’ve spent the last seven and a half months trying to find it again.
I lost two people within a few days when I got back into the U.S. from our mission trip and to say the loss threw me off my feet would be an understatement. These two, were two that fought for their health, through their pain, and with all that they had. They were constant reminders to me that I had it in me to fight too. I held them close to my heart, I still do.
Grief has this not so funny way of swallowing me whole. The loss this year came three years after the last, and the last was the one that left me at my darkest. This time instead of crumbling down and drowning, I froze with fear that I would end up back at my darkest, or somehow somewhere even worse.
I was living in this state of fear and panic that I would get too depressed, maybe even suicidal. But instead of falling into the void of my depression, I was just anxious about the possibility that I could. I couldn’t even admit it out loud. I couldn’t even say it to myself.
I am anxious that I am going to get so depressed again because the last time someone I loved died I crumbled into so many pieces I still feel like I am gluing myself back together. I am exhausted, I don’t think I can keep gluing myself together piece by piece only to become someone I don’t recognize.
How is it possible that I, the person who has repeatedly opened up about my struggles with mental health to those around me and those not around me at all, can’t admit that I’m struggling?
Hey mom, hey dad, I’m struggling.
It took me months, but I managed to get the words out. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around, the fact that I can talk about my mental health with a complete stranger and tell people that I see a counselor regularly, but when I am struggling I can’t say anything at all.
It took nearly 6 months but I finally felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I was in Zion National Park hiking and I had fallen behind the people I was with because I was having a bad pain day. I stopped and sat beside the trail on a big rock near the river and waited for them to find me. I sat there for about an hour and it was almost as if peace poured down over me. I was staring at the cliffs all around me and started singing in my head the lyrics from a song we’ve sung in worship from time to time. The words played on a loop in my head “and I will climb this mountain with my hands wide open” and I realized how absurd it is for me to be mad at myself for struggling. It was in that sacred moment of peace that I forgave myself for having a hard time.
The immense feeling of grief has slowly faded. I no longer feel like I am slowly gluing myself back together. I’m not worried about falling back to my darkest. And I have never felt so strong in my faith.
Throughout the past four and a half years I’ve done everything in my power to protect myself. I’ve closed my heart off. I’ve pushed people that I love away. I have been in and out of fight or flight mode for far too long. This year has broken me down and forced me to realize so much through Zion and spending time at church camp. I’m done having the mindset that I have to get better before I can let anyone in. I’m done shaming myself for struggling. I’m breaking down the walls that I’ve been building up around myself ever since I got sick. I’m done hiding just because I’m not where I want to be. I have overcome, and because of that I am more myself than I have ever been.

You can hear the songs I was listening to when I wrote this here.








