We often talk about resilience in platitudes, in empty phrases that feel more like a pat on the back than a genuine acknowledgement of suffering. But for me, the word took on a raw, almost visceral meaning in 2025. It wasn’t about simply bouncing back; it was about clawing my way out of a deep, dark hole I hadn’t realized I was digging.
The 2025 year was is where I experienced the full-on implosion of my life. It was a year of mental health crises, houselessness, a complete lack of transportation, and the gnawing ache of food scarcity. While I had these experienced earlier in life several times due to a long standing mental health challenged this is the first time I came out of it with clarity, meaning and direction. Looking back now, from a vantage point of emerging peace, I realize I walked straight into hell, and yet, somehow, I’m still standing — maybe even doing it with a touch of style.
For decades, my life had been a series of repetitious cycles. Cycles of building something up, only to watch it crumble under the weight of mental health struggles and a persistent lack of self-esteem. I had felt like I was constantly swimming against the current, always one mistake or one episode away from being pulled under. 2025 felt like the ultimate culmination of that repetitive loss, the moment when the current finally won.
The mental health episode that triggered it all wasn’t just a bump in the road; it was a devastating crash, leaving behind a wake of fractured relationships and a sense of alienation I hadn’t anticipated. It was an experience that echoed a profound truth I’ve always felt but struggled to articulate: that the world we live in is a conditional one. A world that’s quicker to judge than it is to understand, slower to offer a kind hand than it is to turn away.
In the aftermath of my episode, I felt that conditionality acutely. I saw loved ones, confused and angry, their compassion tempered by their own fear or frustration. I felt the weight of their judgment, the subtle shift in their eyes as they struggled to reconcile the person they thought I was with the person they saw before them.
But the real challenge, the real test of my spirit, wasn’t managing the perceptions of others. It was managing my own perception of myself. I inherited a wasteland of debris — a broken mind, a shattered heart, and a world that suddenly felt very small and very unfriendly. I felt the suffocating grip of shame and anger, a paralyzing fear that this was it, that this was the end of the line.
Historically, when faced with this kind of wreckage, my natural instinct had been to flee. I’d pack up whatever was left of my belongings and seek out a new start in a new city, hoping that a change of scenery would somehow heal the cracks in my soul. It was a coping mechanism born out of a desperate desire for comfort and safety. But this time, something felt different.
This time, as the days bled into weeks and the weeks into months, I realized I couldn’t run. Not again. Not at this stage of my life. The thought of rebuilding everything — the physical, the mental, the emotional — from scratch felt insurmountable. It was too late, I told myself, for another new start.
And so, I chose to stay. I chose to sit with the wreckage. I chose to confront the pain head-on, to face the uncomfortable truths that my mental illness had laid bare. It was a terrifying decision, a terrifying admission of vulnerability. But it was also a decision born out of a newfound sense of self-preservation.
I needed to break the cycle. I needed to stop running and start rebuilding. I needed to find the strength to confront the mess I had made, to heal the parts of myself that were broken, and to begin the arduous process of rebuilding my life on a foundation that could withstand any storm.
As I began this journey of healing, I found solace in a song that had been playing on repeat in my head for months: “Held By Love” by Mister Eternity. The lyrics resonated with something deep inside me, a belief I had held onto even when my world was falling apart.
The song spoke to me of an invisible hand, a gentle presence that guided me through the darkest nights, even when I felt alone and abandoned. It spoke to me of a grace that allowed me to find my way back to love, despite the pain and strife of mental illness and anxiety.
This invisible presence wasn’t some distant, ethereal force. It was something tangible, something real. It was the feeling of warmth that spread through my chest when I watched a sunrise, the sense of peace that descended upon me when I took a deep breath. It was the knowledge that, even in my darkest moments, I was safe, guided, and whole.
And so, over the last year I began the work. A continuation of decades of previous battles yet somehow different and more profound then any other time. I started by tending to my mental health, taking the necessary steps to manage my illness and prevent future episodes. It was a challenging process, fraught with setbacks and self-doubt. But I persisted, driven by a desire to reclaim my life.
With my mental health on the mend, I turned my attention to my emotional well-being. This was perhaps the hardest part of the journey, the part that required me to confront the pain I had caused others and to seek their forgiveness. It was a process that demanded humility and a willingness to be vulnerable, qualities that I had struggled with in the past.
But I also understood that my journey of emotional healing wasn’t just about seeking forgiveness from others. It was about seeking forgiveness from myself. It was about letting go of the shame and anger that had defined my life for so long and embracing a self-love that was deep, unconditional, and enduring.
Through all of this, “Held By Love” was a reminder of that safe haven within that no outer circumstance can touch. It was my soundtrack to survival, a reminder that I was not alone. It was a beacon of hope in a sea of despair, a testament to the fact that even in our darkest moments, we are still held by a love that is larger than ourselves.
As 2025 drew to a close, I realized that I was no longer the same person I had been at the beginning of the year or ever. The struggles I had faced, the pain I had endured, had honed my voice, refined my purpose, and given me a perspective on life that I had previously forgotten.
I had learned that struggle is not just a definition of my existence; it’s a defining feature of my strength. It’s the lens through which I see the world, the furnace that has tempered my soul. I have learned to forgive myself without forgetting the lessons I’ve learned. I have learned to acknowledge the hurts I’ve caused others without letting them deny my own pain I endured through stigma, neglect and the apathy of society.
And most importantly, I have found my way back to love. Not just the love of others, but the love of myself. A love that is robust, resilient, and unbreakable.
Looking back on 2025, I realize that it wasn’t a wasted year. It was a year of profound transformation, a year where I walked through hell and emerged stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. It was a year where I learned that even in our darkest moments, we are safe, guided by grace, and held by love.