When Hope Awoke from the Depths of Despair
It wasn't the sound of an alarm that woke me, nor a gentle hand on my shoulder—but rather an immense emptiness in my chest.
I woke up to an unbearable silence within, as if something had gone out in the night and dared not return.
I opened my eyes not because I wanted to, but because I didn't know how not to.
I showered, ate tasteless food, moved through the day with a body that remembered motion, while my soul remained curled up in bed, unmoved.
Despair doesn't scream—it steals you quietly.
It doesn't slap, it dulls, until you no longer feel your own hands.
It took me from myself over many days, without noise, without dramatic tears.
Just a slow retreat from everything I once loved:
My laughter, my prayers, my desire to dream.
That girl I used to be—the confident, curious one—burning with life.
I hadn't even realized I had reached the bottom.
The bottom wasn't a dark pit; it was a place without feeling.
Joy was fleeting. Sadness was dull.
Nothing mattered. No one noticed. And I meant nothing to myself.
Then it happened...
Not a great event, but a very tiny moment.
Maybe a white cloud in a cold sky.
Maybe the call to prayer breaking the night's silence.
Or a book I had forgotten for months, falling off the shelf as I passed by.
A faint moment, yet something inside me stirred.
I stopped suddenly, as if something inside me asked:
"Is this really you?
Do you remember how you used to laugh, full-heartedly?
How your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you believed in?
Do you remember the last time you wrote?
The last time you breathed without heaviness?"
I didn't answer.
But something in me wept.
Not aloud, but with an old scar that decided to wake up.
And from amidst the rubble, a small idea rose.
Not quite a rising, more like a whisper.
A very quiet voice, like leaves rustling at sunset, said to me:
"Maybe... just maybe, you weren't meant to live this way."
That was hope.
It didn't arrive with a bang.
It didn't promise me joy.
But it gave me back my own hand, so I could hold myself again.
It didn't extinguish the pain—but it made me believe I deserved to step out of it.
I began to change—not through grand declarations, but in small, gentle ways.
I started making my bed in the morning, as if to declare a new beginning.
I drank water slowly, not out of habit, but in honor of the body that had carried me.
I opened the window and let the sun touch me—not because I was happy, but because my heart needed its warmth.
I walked alone—not to escape loneliness, but to search for my voice.
I discovered that hope isn't the end of sorrow—it's the first decision to rise.
To get up, even if crawling.
To say "enough," even in a broken whisper.
To stop chasing someone, and instead begin the walk back toward yourself.
I discovered that my heart, though torn, was still beating—faintly, but beating.
And that inside me, a small child was still waiting by the threshold of light, holding her notebook, asking:
"Are you back?
Do you still dream?
Do you still love life?"
And I smiled.
Not because I was okay, but because I had begun choosing to be.
And every time I wanted to give up, I heard that voice again, quietly saying:
"Try once more... just for you."
The First Days Back to Myself
Healing didn't arrive with trumpets or fireworks.
It came quietly, like the sound of your own breath when you finally notice you're breathing again.
And in those first days, everything felt raw. Even the light.
I wasn't suddenly healed. I was simply... softer.
More aware.
My body still heavy with memory, but my heart had cracked open just enough to let in a breeze.
The smallest things became sacred.
The way my fingers wrapped around a warm mug in the morning.
The way my feet touched the floor when I finally chose to rise, not because I had to—but because I wanted to see the sky.
I began to greet silence, not as a threat, but as a presence. A companion.
And when I cried—which still happened often—I cried differently.
Not from helplessness, but from a tenderness returning to me.
It was like watering a wilted plant, unsure if it would bloom again—but watering anyway.
I started choosing.
Choosing to walk even when I had nowhere to go.
Choosing to eat slowly, and taste again.
Choosing to light a candle at night, just for me.
Choosing to turn the music low and let it settle in my chest.
There were still shadows, still echoes of old pain.
Sometimes I'd hear his voice in my head—questioning me, doubting me.
But now, I spoke back.
"That's not mine anymore."
I'd whisper it to myself like a prayer.
I began writing again. Not perfectly. Not poetically.
But honestly. Messy sentences.
Half-thoughts. Pages full of questions.
And in those lines, my voice returned.
Some days I stumbled.
I looked back. I missed what hurt me.
But now I knew: missing isn't a reason to return.
And on one soft morning, I laughed—really laughed.
It caught me by surprise.
That sound, unfamiliar yet familiar, like a bird landing on my shoulder.
In that moment, I realized:
I was no longer trying to escape the pain.
I was learning to carry it with grace.
It had shaped me, but it no longer defined me.
Healing isn't linear.
Some days I still ache.
But now I ache with purpose—with breath, with hope.
And every day, I walk a little closer to myself.
Not to who I was before the storm.
But to the woman I became because I faced it—
The one who did not drown.
The one who still chooses to rise.
The one who knows:
Light is not the absence of darkness,
but the courage to face it and still bloom.