When I began sharing my story, I opened with why I disappeared for a year, a time when I pulled away from everyone and everything. At the time, I was overwhelmed, drowning under the weight of my trauma, my responsibilities, and the mounting expectations I couldn’t meet. That year wasn’t just about retreating; it was about survival. I needed space to breathe, to exist without constantly feeling like I was failing the people around me.

But disappearing wasn’t the end; it was the beginning of a much longer, harder journey. In that year, I realized something I didn’t want to admit: trauma doesn’t just go away. It lingers, embedding itself in ways you don’t always notice until everything finally crashes down.

Through all the chaos and grief, I came to understand that no one shows you the way through long-term trauma. There’s no step-by-step process for what to do when you’re left to carry everything alone, without guidance or adequate resources. Insurance dictates what help you can afford, and income limits the tools available to you. Every step forward felt like trying to clear a path in the dark, uncertain if I was even heading in the right direction.

When my stepfather passed away, I thought I’d feel a sense of finality. I was relieved he could no longer hurt anyone, but I didn’t expect the wave of anger and grief that followed. I grieved for the person I might have been without the weight of his actions. I grieved for the opportunities I never had to fully confront him and make him pay for what he stole from me, and use that to pay for all my years of therapy. I was furious at the system that failed me and allowed him to keep hurting others for years.

I also carried the anger of other betrayals, including one I faced during my career. A job I once loved became unbearable, as I was overloaded and gaslit into thinking my worth depended on meeting impossible expectations. That chapter ended when I walked away, choosing to prioritize my mental health over the cycle of exploitation I’d fallen into.

It wasn’t until I left everything behind, my abuser, that job, even some relationships, that I began to feel the weight lift. But even then, the overwhelming feelings of anger, sadness, and guilt wouldn’t leave. I felt like I’d been hit by everything all at once.

There were days when the depression became unbearable. The dark thoughts came back, the kind that whisper you’d be better off gone. It wasn’t the first time I had those thoughts, or even the first time I had a plan in my head. I could list a thousand reasons why I could have developed a substance abuse disorder or followed through with the plan, but I didn’t. Somewhere deep down, I knew I couldn’t go down that path or give in to it. I had to keep going.

I have a daughter, and I love her. I have family that I love deeply. And while I wanted to say I needed to stay alive for them, the truth is, you can’t live for someone else. You have to choose to live for yourself first. I had to learn that saving myself wasn’t selfish; it was necessary. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I reminded myself that the pain I carried wasn’t the whole story. I still had something left, something worth saving, even if I couldn’t see it clearly yet.

That’s why I disappeared.

Now, looking back, I see that year for what it was: the start of rebuilding, slowly, piece by piece. The process hasn’t been easy. Trauma doesn’t have a neat resolution; it lingers. The scars are still there, but I’ve learned to live with them in a way that lets me move forward, even as they shape parts of who I am.

Sharing this journey was never about tying everything up in a bow or claiming to be healed. It’s about showing that healing is messy and not linear. It’s about acknowledging the anger, the grief, and the losses along the way while celebrating the victories, no matter how small.

To everyone who’s made it this far, thank you for giving me the space to share this. This isn’t where the story ends, but where my journey continues. Healing isn’t a destination. It’s messy, nonlinear, and often invisible. It’s learning how to live fully, even when the weight of the past feels heavy.

This collection lives here now, all in one place, for anyone who needs to see what survival really looks like, raw, unfiltered, and still in progress. If anything here resonated with you, I hope you carry it gently. Because survival isn’t something you move on from. It’s something you live with. And no one should have to walk through it alone.