SurvivorStory

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 Reason I’m Still Here
By Jenn Dacey

For most of my life, I didn’t believe I had a future. I didn’t think I deserved one.
Since I was fifteen, I’ve struggled with severe mental illness — depression, bipolar disorder, and later, borderline personality disorder. The pain was overwhelming, and the darkness relentless. I survived nearly 50 suicide attempts, each one a desperate plea to end the suffering I carried deep inside. For decades, I couldn’t find a reason to stay.
But somehow, I’m still here. And I’ve finally stopped asking why. Now, I’m searching for what for.
Growing up, I never felt seen. I was bullied, silenced, and repeatedly invalidated. I experienced childhood trauma, including abuse by someone who was supposed to be a spiritual protector. No one acknowledged it. No one offered help. That betrayal shattered my sense of safety, trust, and self-worth. I was left to navigate a life I never felt equipped to live — constantly wondering what was wrong with me.
As an adult, I carried that pain into every area of my life. I struggled with addiction, broken relationships, estrangement from my children, and a total loss of identity. I couldn’t hold a job. I couldn’t maintain hope. I lived in survival mode, day after day, with no vision beyond simply enduring the next moment. I was lost.
On May 3 of this year, I made what I believed would be my final attempt to escape the weight of it all. But something happened. I woke up — still intubated — in an ICU bed. It was my 29th documented attempt. But this time was different. I didn’t feel numb or angry. I felt terrified. And then, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: clarity.
That moment became my turning point. I realized I had to make a choice — not just to stay alive, but to finally take control of my healing. To stop waiting for someone else to fix what was broken and to start becoming the person I needed all along.
Seven weeks after that moment, I enrolled in community college. I chose Human Services as my major, with a focus on Drug and Alcohol Counseling. For the first time, I set goals — real ones. I met with my advisor. I planned my schedule. And I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could build a life rooted in purpose, not pain.
I also completed a Partial Hospitalization Program and finally started offering myself the grace I’ve always extended to others. For so long, I thought healing meant hiding my past. Now I know that true recovery means integrating it — using it as fuel, not a weight.
I’ve spent years in therapy, and while some tools helped, many didn’t go deep enough. I’m now exploring new, research-backed treatments like Spravato — an FDA-approved esketamine nasal spray for treatment-resistant depression. I’m no longer ashamed of needing help. In fact, it’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.
Today, I’m not just surviving. I’m rebuilding — piece by piece — a version of myself I never thought I’d get to meet. I’m learning to trust my instincts, speak my truth, and take up space in a world I used to believe didn’t want me in it.
This journey hasn’t been linear, and it’s far from over. I still grieve. I still long for reconciliation with my children. I still face hard days. But the difference now is that I don’t face them alone — and I don’t face them without hope.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt invisible, voiceless, or too broken to begin again—please hear me when I say: it’s not too late.
You are not too far gone.
You are not beyond help or healing.
I’m living proof.
I used to believe I was born with a curse—to suffer.
Now I know: I was spared the curse, so I could serve.
To share.
To save—if only one person sees themselves in these words and chooses to stay one more day.
I don’t have all the answers.
But I have a reason now.
And every morning I wake up, I choose to live like I’ve been given one more chance to find out what that reason is—and to live it out loud.

#mentalhealthmatters #stillmatters #SurvivorStory #ThisPainHasPurpose
#healingjourney #Grief #ThisIsWhy #EndTheStigma #LiveAnotherDay #FromDarknessToLight #keepgoing #WhenNothingElseWorked #Spravato #strongerthanmystorm #SpravatoHope #writingtoheal