My mental health journey felt like being lost in a dark forest, with no map and no compass. But even in the thickest darkness, there was always a tiny flicker of light—a single leaf catching the sun, a distant star. That flicker was hope, and it was the only thing that kept me moving forward. This is my story of following that light.
Looking back, my second year of medical school was the moment everything shifted. I was trying so hard to keep up with my studies, but a deep, unexplainable heaviness kept me from moving forward. It was a weight I carried with me every day, a silent struggle no one else could see.
Ignoring the red flags, I plunged deeper into a mental fog. My mood became a constant low hum, sleep was a stranger, and my appetite swung wildly. I was so lethargic, I felt like I was moving through quicksand. The simplest things, like making my bed, became insurmountable tasks. Each morning, just getting out from under the covers felt like lifting a boulder off my chest.
The days dragged on, slow and heavy, and I felt like I was drowning, silently crying out for help. My world completely unraveled when I failed my exam. But even in the midst of that chaos, a part of me knew I was capable of so much more.
Hope was the only thing that kept me from dropping out of medical school, but hoping things would simply go my way wasn’t enough. When I had to repeat my second year, I realized it was an opportunity. I was entering a new chapter with a new environment and new people, but most importantly, I was determined not to be the same person with the same dark cloud over my head. I was ready to change. This is where I had my first contact with mental health services. I’m incredibly grateful to have had access to mental health services. It’s a privilege I’ll never take for granted.
I decided to take my recovery one day at a time, a journey that involved changing medications and psychiatrists, and starting psychodynamic psychotherapy. There were days I felt I was back at square one, but my psychiatrist helped me see the bigger picture by teaching me about the Prochaska and DiClemente cycle of change, which showed me that setbacks are a normal part of progress and progress isn’t always linear. Even now, I still have moments of relapse, but it’s crucial for me to set my goals and priorities straight so I don’t get lost in those feelings. I’ve learned that it’s okay to feel these emotions, but it’s more important to acknowledge them and then return to what matters. It’s a constant practice of recognizing the feeling without letting it consume me, always steering myself back toward my goals and priorities.
And for those of you reading this who are still trying to find your footing or are navigating a dark time, remember that hope is real. There is help available for you, and you are not alone. Please reach out and find the support you deserve. Even in your darkest moments, remember that you are loved by more people than you know, including those who will be fortunate enough to cross your path one day. You deserve to experience all the beauty and good in this world, so keep going.
— eleven
