mentalhealthmatters

I am deserving of all the good that life has to offer.

For decades, I didn’t believe it. I measured my worth by what I endured, by how much I gave, by how well I survived. I learned that goodness had to be earned through suffering. Pain became proof. I held it close, convinced that survival alone justified my place.

I remember mornings in the quiet house, tea gone cold, replaying every failure. I remember declining a dinner invitation because I hadn’t finished enough work that day, as though companionship had to be earned through productivity. My mind whispered that I was only entitled to struggle, that joy was reserved for those who hadn’t stumbled. For years, I listened.

But slowly, I began to notice moments that didn’t fit: a sunrise that caught me unaware, a friend’s laughter spilling across a room, a smile from someone who owed me nothing. These moments weren’t rewards. They were just good. They existed outside merit, beyond suffering.

I began to unlearn.

I noticed the ways I resisted joy, how I held back anticipating disappointment. I wasn’t practicing gratitude; I was preparing for debt, expecting any ease to be balanced with pain. But good things are not contingent, and joy does not require proof. Love is not a punishment waiting to be collected.

I do not need to prove myself to receive. I do not need to demonstrate resilience or perfection to earn a warm cup of coffee, a quiet afternoon, or a conversation that lingers into laughter. Being here, continuing, choosing to live with intention: this is enough.

There are still mornings when this belief feels fragile. I flinch at ease, waiting for loss to follow. But each time I linger in the warmth of kindness or the brilliance of a sunset, I practice receiving without guilt. I open my hands, not in expectation but in readiness, and I let life arrive as it will.

This is a quiet liberation: understanding that goodness is not a reward but part of the rhythm of living. It is as natural as breathing, as necessary as water, as rightful as the space I occupy. The world does not tally my struggles to calculate my share of happiness. Good things arrive, unbidden and unearned, when I allow them.

So I practice. I take joy in small things. I let moments linger. I smile at nothing. I answer kindness with acceptance rather than suspicion. I breathe in the world as it comes, understanding that life’s goodness is not conditional, and neither is my right to it.

This practice has become essential to my wellness. For years, I approached self-care as penance, something to fix what was broken rather than nurture what was whole. But recognizing that I deserve goodness shifts everything. When I begin my day affirming my worthiness, I stop treating rest as laziness and joy as indulgence. I allow myself nourishment without guilt, boundaries without apology, pleasure without justification.

It transforms how I move through the world, making space for what sustains me: the morning walk I take not to earn my breakfast but because my body deserves movement and light; the time I spend reading, creating, or simply sitting in stillness because my mind deserves peace; the relationships I cultivate because connection is a fundamental human need, not a reward for good behavior.

Wellness, I have learned, is not about perfection or punishment but about tending to myself with the same compassion I would offer a friend. It begins with this single, revolutionary belief: I am deserving of care, of kindness, of all the good that life has to offer.

#MentalHealth #MentalHealthAwareness #Depression #BipolarDisorder #Recovery #Selfworth #Selflove #Healing #PersonalGrowth #Mindfulness #resilience #mentalhealthmatters #Endurance #Joy #Gratitude #wellness #LifeLessons #innerstrength #Survivor #EmotionalHealth

When I was younger, I didn’t understand why I got angry so easily. Little things would set me off... a wrong word, a delay, even silence. I thought it was just part of who I was but looking back, it was a symptom of something deeper… something I hadn’t learned to face.

My anger cost me some good friends and moments I can never get back. For a long time, I blamed others but eventually, I had to look inward and admit I needed help.

Healing didn’t come overnight. It came in pieces... through therapy, quiet reflection and learning how to sit with my emotions instead of fighting them. I’m still on that journey but I’m no longer the person I used to be.

If you’ve ever lost yourself to anger or pain, just know you can find peace again. It takes time, patience and self-forgiveness.

#mentalhealthjourney #Healing
#growth #selfawareness
#MenWhoHeal #mentalhealthmatters #emotionalhealing #innerpeace #lifelesson

My Gold Medal Acceptance Speech for Healing on My Own Terms

Wow… I don’t even know where to start. I never thought I’d be standing here—because truthfully, for most of my life, I didn’t believe I’d make it this far, nor did I even want to.

I never had the fan club, the cheering section, or the supportive coach in my corner.

I trained for this moment in silence, in grief, in darkness, in pain.

In all these emotions, I shattered, learning the true path to lasting healing is rebuilding all those pieces on your own, no matter they fit

I didn’t win this medal for being the strongest.

I won it for refusing to stay broken.

A beautiful mosaic now captivates where only glass stood before.

I was told I couldn’t make good decisions. That I’d never get better. That I needed to be managed, not trusted.

Learned how to finally trust myself—and that was the most radical thing I’ve ever done.

I chose to fight.

I chose Spravato.

I chose truth.

I chose me.

Even when the world said I was too much, too messy, too emotional—I said, “Okay… then I’ll be all of that and still rise.”

To the people who watched me drown and called it drama: I release you.

To the ones who loved the version of me that stayed small: She doesn't exist anymore.

To the ones who tried to ship me off, silence me, or shame me into submission: that shit ends now and if you can't support me, get the hell off my bus.

This medal is for the woman who almost didn’t make it, more times than seems believably possible

Who sat weeping and praying for a crucial reset to her brain - and she got it.

Who now sleeps through treatments not in fear, but in peace.

Who bought her own damn cake and no longer apologizes for being one of a kind.

This is my moment.

And I accept it because I’m finally healing on my own terms.

Thank you… to the fire.

Thank you… to the silence that made me scream.

Thank you… to the little girl inside who never stopped hoping that one day she’d be the one holding the mic.

Well baby—here I am.

I made it.

And I did it my way. 🎂🥇
#MightyTogether
#HealingOnMyOwnTerms
#RebuiltNotBroken
#SheChoseHerself #MentalHealthVictory #ResilienceLooksLikeThis #SurvivorEnergy #MosaicNotShattered
#unapologeticallyme
#WatchMeRise
#NewYearNewMeEnergy
#chapter52
#SpravatoJourney
#BrainReset
#SuicideSurvivor
#KetamineTherapyWorks
#mentalhealthmatters

I never liked having my picture taken growing up. I was bullied a lot—my overbite, the braces, my awkwardness. It all made me want to disappear when someone pulled out a camera. I didn’t feel beautiful, not even close. My mom didn’t help either. She wasn’t the type to hype me up, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to pay for senior pictures. So I just… faded. Into the background. Into the shadows. Into invisibility.

But the strangest thing happened on a hospital bed in Wilmington, Delaware, on May 8th, 1993, sometime between 2 and 4 in the afternoon.

It was the first time I ever felt beautiful.

Not because I looked a certain way. Hell, I had just undergone an emergency C-section. I’d been put under because I could feel them prepping my stomach—pressure and all—and I started to panic. I was scared out of my mind. I was nineteen years old, about to be twenty, and here I was, having surgery for the first time in my life, alone, high on fear and anesthesia, and preparing to say goodbye to a baby I had carried through chaos.

There had been no baby shower. No nursery. No baby book with little milestones. None of the cute, expected moments of joy that mark a first pregnancy.

Only guilt. Only shame. Only secrets. Because I had messed up—I had done drugs while pregnant. And I carried that weight every minute of every day leading up to his birth. I didn’t know if he’d be okay.

When I came to, my mom was sitting beside me. I could barely open my eyes, and the anesthesia had me foggy, but I managed to croak out, “Is he okay?” I needed to know. I needed to hear it. I needed some form of redemption.

Her eyes watered when she said it.
“He’s perfect.”

She told me his APGAR scores were 7.5 or something like that—I didn’t know what it meant. Nobody had explained it to me. Nobody had prepared me for any of this. But her eyes… they told me everything. He was here. And he was safe.

And then they brought him to me.

God. I will never forget what I saw.
This perfect, red-faced, wide-eyed baby.
A round little head with soft brown hair.
And eyes—those deep, searching blue eyes—that locked onto mine like he already knew me. Like he had been waiting just to see my face.

I had never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.

And in that moment, I remember thinking:
There has to be something beautiful inside of me… because I made that.

He was proof. Living, breathing, perfect proof that I couldn’t be as worthless as I had been led to believe. I couldn’t be all the bad things I had internalized. I had to have something sacred within me to have created something so miraculous. He was the first reflection of beauty I ever truly believed in.

That baby saved me in a way I wouldn’t even understand for decades.

I gave him up for adoption. That was the hardest, most agonizing decision of my life. But before that chapter began—before the grief, the loss, the empty arms—I had this single, eternal moment of clarity:

I was capable of beauty.
I was capable of creation.
I was capable of love so deep it cracked my ribs open and reshaped me.

And for the first time, I saw it.
I saw me.

#amotherslove #whatsyouradoptionstory #anotherbetrayal #SurvivorStory #FromDarknessToLight #mentalhealthmatters #writingtoheal #strongerthanmystorm #ThisPainHasPurpose

“Some promises hurt more when they’re broken than if they were never made at all.”

I thought I had felt it all.
The butterflies.
The magnetic pull.
The way the world fell quiet when our eyes locked.
All the clichés I used to scoff at - I lived them.
And I thought that meant it was real.

But what I really felt… was hope.
Hope that this one was different.
That this one would stay.
That this one would love me through it, not just love me when I was easy to love.

I showed him the darkest parts -
the corners of my story I usually keep hidden,
the jagged truths I never speak out loud.
And he didn’t run.
He did just the opposite.
He leaned in.
He comforted.
He promised.

Not just to stay -
but that if that time ever came,
if distance ever threatened what we had,
there would be a conversation first.
A moment.
A warning.
A chance to not be blindsided.

But there was no conversation.
There was no warning.
Just silence.
Just the slow realization that he had left me emotionally before he ever physically did.

And the part that hurts the most?
I believed him.
I let go of my fears because I thought—for once—I was safe.
That someone had finally seen me and didn’t want to leave.

But now I know.
Some people say things not because they mean them,
but because they know you do.

#BrokenPromises #lossandlove #writingthroughgrief #emotionalabandonment #SurvivorVoice #mentalhealthmatters
#Stillhere #SurvivorStory
#healingjourney
#ThisIsWhy
#EndTheStigma
#LiveAnotherDay
#youarenotalone
#FromDarknessToLight
#strongerthanmystormm

🧺 The Basket of Markers: A Post-Spravato Revelation

Tonight, I got high.
Not just “I’m giggly and everything feels soft” high — I mean clarity high. The kind that creeps up when you’re just living your weird little life, surrounded by your weird little things, and suddenly boom — therapy-level insight smacks you in the face with a Sharpie.

You see, I’m kind of a hoarder. Not the kind they make TV shows about (yet), but close.
Especially when it comes to stuff that makes me happy. Craft supplies. Journaling pens. Markers. Planners. If it comes in all the colors, I want all the colors. And not just want — I obsess. I organize. I keep things forever because I swear to myself, I’m gonna get back into that someday.

I don’t just have one planner.
I have five.
Each has a purpose, a location, and they’re all synced up like the Pentagon of personal organization. That’s how I work. That’s how my brain has always tried to create control out of chaos.

And then there’s my marker collection. We’re talking gel tips, fine points, Sharpies, off-brand craft store specials, and yes — I recently bought a 262-color mega pack because apparently, I like to own coloring even though I do it maybe three times a year.

But here’s the thing.

Tonight, I bought a new basket.
A Longaberger — because yeah, I collect those too.

And instead of separating every marker by brand, as I’ve always done, I put them all together.

Still color-coded (duh — I’m not a monster).
But for the first time, not by brand.

All mixed up.
All in one basket.

And in that quiet little moment, I realized:

This basket is me now.

Before, everything in my life was separated:
🖤 Before trauma / after trauma
🖤 Before the pain / after the breakdown
🖤 Before Owen died / after the world collapsed

I kept it all compartmentalized — like trauma Tupperware. Neatly labeled. Sealed shut. Keep the mess contained.

But since starting Spravato, something shifted.
My thoughts are no longer all-or-nothing.
My identity isn’t black-and-white.
And my healing doesn’t need labels.

Just like those markers, I can exist in the same basket.

The grief.
The growth.
The obsession.
The creativity.
The sadness.
The sparkle.

It all goes together now.

So maybe I’m still a little OCD, and maybe I’ll still color-code by rainbow arc because I like pretty things. But I’m not organizing by trauma anymore.

I’m organizing by joy.
By who I am now.
By what makes sense in this moment.

And that’s not crazy.
That’s recovery.

So yeah, maybe it’s just a stoned night with a bunch of markers and a woven basket…
Or maybe it’s Sigmund Freud meets radical self-love, with a gel pen in hand and a giggle in my throat.

Either way, I’m keeping the damn basket.
And I’m keeping all of me in it.

⸻

By Jenn
🌈 Color-coder of chaos. Hoarder of hope. Marker-wielding warrior.
#postspravatolife #healingoutloud #ocdbutmakeitart

#postspravatolife
#Stillhere
#healingjourney
#EndTheStigma #youarenotalone #FromDarknessToLight
#WhenNothingElseWorked
#GriefIsLoveWithNowhereTo #GriefIsLoveWithNowhereToGo #mentalhealthmatters #SpravatoSavedMe #writingtoheal #strongerthanmystorm #SpravatoHope #healingjourney #EndTheStigma #keepgoing