Mind Notes

Mind Notes

February 2, 2026 - Remembering Where I Am

Living with schizoaffective disorder has a way of blurring time. On harder days, I forget where I am now and how far I’ve actually come. My mind pulls me backward—toward past versions of myself shaped by fear, instability, and survival. It’s easy to measure myself against old struggles instead of recognizing the ground I’m standing on today.

Lately, I’ve been trying to pause when that happens. To remind myself that I am not who I was in my darkest moments. I’ve moved through things that once felt impossible. I’ve learned how to stay. How to adapt. How to face another day even when my mind tells me I’m still trapped in yesterday.

There’s value in small victories. Waking up. Getting out of bed. Facing the day instead of hiding from it. These moments don’t look impressive from the outside, but they matter deeply. Sometimes, simply showing up is the achievement. Sometimes, survival itself deserves recognition.

I’m learning that it’s okay—necessary, even—to reward myself for these small acts of courage. To acknowledge that progress doesn’t always roar forward. Sometimes it whispers, You made it through today.

If you’re struggling to see how far you’ve come, try to look gently. Don’t measure your life only by what’s difficult now. Measure it by what you’ve endured, what you’ve learned, and the fact that you’re still here. Facing a new day is not small. It’s everything.

Mind Notes

January 30, 2026 - Holding the Line

Lately, I’ve been feeling stronger. Not invincible, not cured—but steady in a way I don’t take lightly. Confidence has been finding its way back to me in small, meaningful moments. Clearer mornings. Quieter thoughts. A sense that I can stand upright in my own life again. And still, my heart bleeds with clinical depression. That truth doesn’t disappear just because the light has returned.

Living with schizoaffective disorder means my mind can become a place I sink into too easily. Thoughts stack on top of one another until I’m treading water, trying not to drown in my own inner noise. That’s why my good days feel sacred. I notice them. I hold them gently. I don’t rush past them anymore as if they’re guaranteed.

There will always be chaos. The world offers no shortage of reasons to slip into despair—externally and internally. I feel that pull. I recognize it. But lately, I’ve been learning how to hold the line. How to stay present without being consumed. How to speak, write, and exist as a voice rather than a silence.

Being able to hold myself together—even imperfectly—feels like a blessing. To feel deeply and still remain here. To carry pain and still choose expression over collapse. That’s not something I want to take for granted. It’s something I want to protect.

If you’re navigating your own fragile balance, know this: strength doesn’t mean the chaos is gone. It means you’re still here, still choosing to stand, still finding ways to speak instead of disappear. And some days, that choice is everything.

Mind Notes

January 26, 2026 - Staying Soft in a Hard World

There was a darkness I wasn’t sure I would survive. A deep, consuming depression that hollowed out my days and made even breathing feel like work. But I’m here now. Not untouched, not unchanged—but still standing. And that feels worth naming. Survival doesn’t always arrive triumphantly. Sometimes it slips in quietly, disguised as endurance.

As I’ve begun to surface again, I find myself looking outward—and what I see is heavy. The news is filled with suffering. People displaced, starving, dying. Pain unfolding in real time while institutions, governments, and entire societies remain silent or unmoved. The quiet feels cruel. It echoes. It reminds me how easy it is for the world to look away.

There are moments when this overwhelms me—when the weight of global suffering presses against the fragile place I’m still healing. But something else rises alongside it: a refusal to become numb. After surviving my own darkness, I know too well what silence can do. I don’t want to harden. I don’t want to stop caring just because caring hurts.

Hope, for me, isn’t blind optimism. It’s an act of resistance. It’s believing that one day we can live differently—that compassion can outgrow cruelty, that peace doesn’t have to remain theoretical. Hope is staying human in a world that keeps testing our humanity.

I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean turning away from pain—my own or anyone else’s. It means staying soft enough to feel, while strong enough to remain here. And today, that feels like enough.

Mind Notes

January 23, 2026 - Choosing a Softer Way Forward

Winter is still here, steady and unyielding, but something in me has shifted. This week, I made a quiet but deeply personal choice—to become vegan. It wasn’t a decision born from trend or theory. It came from seeing too much, from witnessing firsthand how meat is processed, and from the heavy, dark feeling that settled in me afterward and refused to leave.

What I saw stayed with me. Not as images I want to revisit, but as a weight—a deep sense of despair that something fragile and living had been reduced to machinery and efficiency. I carried that feeling for days, unsure what to do with it, until it became clear that I couldn’t unknow it. I couldn’t move forward unchanged.

This choice feels aligned with the season. Winter has taught me to move gently, to listen closely, to act with intention rather than urgency. Becoming vegan feels like an extension of that lesson—a way of choosing compassion, even when it asks something of me. A way of responding to grief with care instead of turning away.

There’s a quiet resilience in this decision. It isn’t loud or performative. It’s simply a commitment to soften where I once hardened, to live in a way that feels more honest to what I felt and what I believe now.

If you’re carrying something heavy—something you can’t unsee or unknow—maybe it’s asking you to change too. Not dramatically. Just sincerely. Sometimes resilience isn’t about enduring what hurts. Sometimes it’s about choosing a different way forward.

Mind Notes

January 19, 2026 - The Strength Beneath The Quiet

Winter still holds the landscape in its grip, but something beneath the surface feels different now. The cold remains, the days are still short, yet there’s a quiet endurance in everything that hasn’t broken. Trees stand firm. The ground rests patiently. Life continues, even when it isn’t visible.

This week, I felt that same resilience stirring in myself. Not the loud kind that pushes forward at all costs, but the quieter kind—the kind that simply keeps going. Showing up. Breathing through the heavier moments. Trusting that steadiness counts, even when progress can’t be measured.

I’m learning that resilience doesn’t always look like strength. Sometimes it looks like persistence. Like choosing to remain kind to myself when things feel slow. Like believing that staying here, staying present, is already an act of courage.

If this season feels heavy, know that surviving it is not passive. There is strength in remaining upright through the cold, in carrying on without fanfare. Winter teaches us that resilience doesn’t rush—it endures.

Mind Notes

January 12, 2026 - Learning the Pace of Winter

January moves slowly, almost deliberately. The mornings linger in gray, the afternoons pass quietly, and the evenings arrive without ceremony. There’s a rhythm to it—a pace that feels unfamiliar in a world that’s always asking for momentum. I’m learning to listen to that rhythm instead of resisting it.

This week, I noticed how much my body wants rest right now. Not just sleep, but spaciousness—time without urgency, moments without expectation. Winter doesn’t demand growth from the surface; it works beneath it. I’m trying to trust that my own progress can be just as quiet.

There’s comfort in realizing I don’t need to force clarity this early in the year. Some understanding comes later, after patience has had time to do its work. For now, it’s enough to show up, to breathe, to move gently through each day as it unfolds.

If you’re feeling slowed down by this season, let it happen. Winter isn’t holding you back—it’s teaching you how to move with care. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need before anything new can begin.

Mind Notes

January 5, 2026 - Letting the Year Arrive Softly

January has a way of arriving with expectations—new beginnings, fresh starts, promises to do more or be more. But this year, I’m choosing a quieter welcome. I don’t want to rush into becoming someone new. I want to arrive as I am, carrying the stillness winter has already taught me.

The days feel pale and open, like blank pages that don’t need to be filled all at once. There’s no pressure to define the year yet, no need to map out every step. Right now, it’s enough to notice the cold light, the slow mornings, the way time stretches without asking anything from me.

I’m learning that beginnings don’t have to be loud to be real. They can unfold slowly, almost unnoticed, settling into place as we move forward. This year doesn’t need to be claimed—it will reveal itself in its own time.

If you’re feeling the pull to start over, I hope you let yourself begin gently. There’s no race. There’s only the quiet work of being here, one soft day at a time.

Mind Notes

December 29, 2025 - Carrying the Quiet Forward

The year is winding down now. The days between Christmas and the new year feel suspended, as if time itself has slowed to catch its breath. There’s a softness in this space—an invitation to look back without judgment and forward without urgency.

This week, I’ve been thinking about what I want to carry with me as the calendar turns. Not goals or resolutions, but quieter things: patience, gentleness, the ability to sit with myself without needing distraction. Winter has taught me that stillness isn’t something to escape—it’s something to learn from.

I don’t need to have everything figured out before the year ends. Some questions can come with me. Some healing is still in progress. And that’s okay. Growth doesn’t reset on January first—it continues, quietly, just as it always has.

As this year closes, I’m choosing to move forward softly. To honor what I’ve survived, what I’ve learned, and what I’m still becoming. The quiet doesn’t end here—it carries on, steady and faithful, into whatever comes next.

Mind Notes

December 22, 2025 - Healing in Stillness

Winter has a way of quieting everything. The streets empty earlier, the light softens, and the world seems to speak in whispers instead of noise. In that stillness, I’ve begun to notice something unexpected—healing doesn’t always move forward. Sometimes it settles in place and waits.

This week, I stopped trying to fill the silence. I let the quiet stretch. I sat with my thoughts instead of outrunning them. At first, it felt uncomfortable, like standing alone in a wide, open field. But slowly, the stillness became less threatening. It began to feel like space—room to breathe, to rest, to exist without needing to explain myself.

There’s healing in not reaching for answers right away. In letting the body unclench. In allowing emotions to pass without chasing them or pushing them aside. Stillness doesn’t fix everything, but it softens the edges. It gives pain somewhere to land without breaking.

If this season has slowed you down too, don’t rush to escape it. Let the quiet hold you for a while. Healing doesn’t always look like movement. Sometimes it looks like staying still long enough to feel safe again.

Mind Notes

December 15, 2025 - The Quiet Loneliness of Winter

There’s a certain loneliness that settles in with winter—soft, almost invisible, but unmistakable once it’s there. The days grow shorter, the light fades earlier, and the world feels a little more distant. Even familiar places seem quieter, as if everything has taken a step back to make room for the cold.

This week, I felt that loneliness more clearly than usual. Not the sharp kind that hurts, but the quiet kind that lingers in the spaces between things. It arrived in the hush of early mornings, in the long stretch of evenings, in the silence that fills the room when the day ends. And instead of running from it, I tried something different—I let it sit with me.

There’s a strange comfort in acknowledging loneliness instead of pushing it away. When I stopped resisting it, it softened. I realized it wasn’t here to consume me; it was here to remind me that even emptiness has its place. Winter has always been a season of retreat, a time when the world turns inward. Maybe my heart is doing the same.

If you’re feeling that winter loneliness too, know that it doesn’t mean something is wrong. Sometimes it’s simply the season moving through us. Let it be quiet. Let it be gentle. And trust that, like every winter before it, this one will eventually thaw.

Mind Notes

December 8, 2025 - The Comfort of Warmth Against the Cold

Winter has settled in a little deeper this week. The air is sharper, the mornings darker, and the evenings feel like they wrap around everything long before I’m ready for them. Yet in the middle of this cold, I’ve found myself drawn to small pockets of warmth—tiny comforts that feel almost sacred.

A heated mug pressed between my palms. The soft glow of a lamp in a quiet room. A blanket draped over my shoulders at the end of the day. These moments don’t ask anything from me. They simply offer a gentle reminder that warmth doesn’t need to be grand to be felt—it just needs to be close.

This week, I realized how grounding it can be to let myself lean into these simple comforts. Not as escape, but as nourishment. As a way of saying, I’m here, I’m human, and I deserve a bit of softness, even now. In the contrast between cold and warmth, something inside me settles.

If the days feel harsh or heavy, I hope you give yourself permission to seek warmth wherever you can find it. Light a candle. Hold a cup of something soothing. Wrap yourself in something soft. Let these small offerings remind you that even in the deepest cold, comfort still reaches for you.

Mind Notes

December 1, 2025 - The Soft Beginning of Winter

Winter doesn’t announce itself loudly. It arrives in a hush—the kind that settles over rooftops and lingers in the early morning air. The light feels different now, thinner somehow, as if it’s stretching itself carefully across the shorter days. I can feel the season shifting not just around me, but within me too.

This week, I’ve been leaning into the slowness that winter brings. There’s no rush in its arrival, no urgency in its cold. Instead, there’s a quiet invitation to turn inward, to rest more deeply, to listen to my own thoughts without running from them. The world seems to move with a gentler rhythm, and I’m trying to match it—step by soft step.

There’s a strange comfort in this beginning: the crisp air, the muted sky, the promise of stillness ahead. It reminds me that slowing down isn’t a retreat—it’s a kind of healing. A way to gather myself before life begins again in the spring.

If you’re feeling the first weight of winter too, take it as permission to breathe a little slower. To soften. To allow this season to wrap you in its quiet, even if just for a moment.

Mind Notes

November 24, 2025 - Gratitude in the Quiet

There’s a stillness settling over everything now. The trees stand motionless, the air feels heavier, and the world seems to hold its breath before winter fully arrives. In that silence, I’ve been noticing small moments of gratitude—quiet, steady, and almost hidden.

It isn’t the loud kind of gratitude, the kind that demands acknowledgment or celebration. It’s softer than that—found in the way the morning light touches the corner of my room, or how a familiar song carries more warmth than I expect. It’s the comfort of a slow evening, the calm of being alone without feeling lonely, the unexpected peace that comes when I simply sit and breathe.

This week, I realized that gratitude doesn’t always burst into our lives—it often drifts in, like the faint scent of winter creeping through an open window. It’s subtle, almost shy, but unmistakably there if I pause long enough to feel it.

If this season feels dim or heavy, try looking for the quiet blessings—the ones that don’t arrive with fanfare but still manage to soften the day. Gratitude doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Sometimes the smallest warmth is the one that keeps us going.

Mind Notes

November 17, 2025 - Finding Warmth in Small Things

The chill has deepened this week. The air bites softly at my hands, and the sky holds its grayness a little longer each day. Yet, in this growing cold, I’ve found warmth in places I used to overlook—small things that remind me that comfort doesn’t need to be grand to be real.

A mug held close between my palms. The faint crackle of a candle’s flame. The sound of distant wind moving through the bare trees. These quiet details feel like tiny shelters—moments that hold me steady while the world prepares for its long sleep.

There’s something tender about learning to find warmth without searching for it. It appears when I slow down enough to notice, when I let the season teach me gentleness instead of resistance.

If the world feels cold or distant right now, look for your small warmths. A blanket. A favorite song. A breath you take slowly, fully. They may not fix everything, but they remind you that the light still lives here—quiet, steady, waiting.

Mind Notes

November 10, 2025 - The Nearing Quiet of Winter

The days feel shorter now, as if the light itself is growing tired. Mornings arrive slowly, wrapped in gray, and evenings seem to come before I’m ready for them. There’s a hush in the air—one that feels both lonely and comforting at the same time.

This week, I found myself noticing the way the world is preparing for rest. The trees stand bare but dignified, the air is crisp enough to make me draw my coat closer. Everything around me seems to be slowing down, not out of sadness, but out of necessity. Nature doesn’t rush toward winter—it eases into it. Maybe I need to do the same.

I’ve been learning that there’s value in this quiet. That silence isn’t emptiness—it’s a space where thoughts can settle and emotions can breathe. Like the earth beneath the frost, I’m learning to rest in stillness, trusting that something unseen is still growing.

If you feel the pull of this season too, let it guide you gently inward. Light a candle, find warmth where you can, and know that slowing down isn’t stopping—it’s preparing for what comes next.

Mind Notes

November 3, 2025 - The Slow Descent of Autumn

November feels quieter than October. The colors that once shouted have softened into whispers—muted golds, fading reds, the kind of beauty that asks to be noticed slowly. The air carries a tenderness now, a reminder that even endings can be gentle when we stop rushing through them.

This week, I’ve felt that same slowing within myself. My thoughts have been softer, my pace more deliberate. Maybe the season is teaching me to honor transition—to accept that it’s okay to fade a little before beginning again. There’s something comforting in that surrender, in the way the world leans into rest instead of resisting it.

I’ve started finding peace in smaller things: the sound of wind against the window, the comfort of a warm cup between my hands, the steady rhythm of rain on the roof. Everything around me is reminding me that beauty doesn’t disappear—it just changes form.

If this season feels heavy or uncertain, try to move with it instead of against it. Let it teach you the grace of slowing down. Even as the world turns inward, there’s still light to be found—quiet, soft, and waiting.

Mind Notes

October 27, 2025 - Preparing for Stillness

As the final days of October settle in, the world feels like it’s exhaling. The trees grow bare, the air cools, and even the light seems to move slower, softer. It’s as if nature is reminding me that rest isn’t something to resist—it’s something to prepare for.

This week, I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to chase constant motion, to fill every silence before it can stretch too long. But this season has a way of asking me to pause. To find beauty in the quiet. To let stillness arrive without apology.

There’s a kind of wisdom in the way the world slows down before winter. It’s not giving up—it’s gathering strength. It’s turning inward so that when the time comes, life can bloom again. I want to learn that rhythm. To rest before I break. To breathe before I begin again.

If you feel the pull to slow down, listen to it. Step gently into the calm. Let the season’s stillness remind you that even in quiet, life continues to grow—just beneath the surface.

Mind Notes

October 20, 2025 - The Season of Reflection

There’s something about late October that feels almost sacred. The air carries a stillness that asks for quiet reflection—the kind that lingers between what has been and what’s yet to come. The trees, half bare and half golden, seem to exist in both worlds at once: holding on and letting go.

This week, I found myself drawn to that in-between space. I thought about how far I’ve come, the pieces of me I’ve shed, and the ones that chose to stay. Change feels softer now, less like an ending and more like a continuation. Maybe that’s what autumn is trying to show me—that every falling leaf is part of a larger story, one that keeps renewing itself.

There’s comfort in this rhythm—the slowing down, the quiet evenings, the reminder that life moves in cycles, not straight lines. We’re allowed to pause, to look back, to honor how much we’ve survived before stepping forward again.

If this season feels heavy or uncertain, take a moment to stand still in it. Listen to the wind through the leaves. Let it remind you that reflection isn’t about dwelling—it’s about understanding. And from understanding, growth always follows.

Mind Notes

October 13, 2025 - When the Leaves Begin to Fall

There’s something deeply humbling about this time of year—the way the trees release what they no longer need, without hesitation. I’ve been thinking about that lately, how nature lets go so gracefully while I often hold on too tightly. The leaves don’t fight their falling. They simply trust the wind to carry them where they’re meant to go.

This week, I’ve been trying to do the same. To let go of old fears, old stories, old versions of myself that no longer fit. It isn’t easy—some things cling the way leaves do before the frost—but there’s peace in the attempt. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting; it means making space for something new to take root.

Change, like autumn, asks for surrender. It asks me to trust that even as things fall away, beauty still remains. The bare branches, the fading light, the chill in the air—they all make room for renewal I can’t yet see.

If you’re holding on too tightly to something, maybe this season can teach us both to loosen our grip. To trust the falling. To find grace in the release.

Mind Notes

October 6, 2025 - Turning Toward the Unknown

October arrives with its own kind of invitation. The air shifts, the light changes, and everything around me seems to whisper, “It’s time to turn.” There’s a certain beauty in this transition—the way nature leans into change without asking for certainty. Leaves let go, skies stretch longer, and the world transforms quietly, almost without resistance.

I want to carry that same spirit within myself this month. To stop bracing against the unknown and instead lean toward it. To see uncertainty not as a threat, but as an opening. Life doesn’t wait for me to have all the answers, and maybe that’s the point. The unknown isn’t here to be solved—it’s here to be lived.

So this October, I’m learning to release a little more. To welcome the turning, the shifting, the questions. To trust that I don’t need to see the whole path to take the next step.

If you’re stepping into the unknown too, may this month remind you that uncertainty can carry its own kind of grace. We don’t have to resist the turning—we can move with it.

Mind Notes

September 29, 2025 - The Strength in Small Beginnings

Lately, I’ve been reminded how much power lives in starting small. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by everything waiting to be done—the unfinished dreams, the unanswered questions, the weight of expectations. But I’m learning that even the tiniest beginnings carry momentum.

This week, I focused on one small task at a time. Writing a single sentence. Taking a short walk. Reaching out to someone I’d been meaning to call. None of it was grand or remarkable, yet each action stacked quietly on the last until I realized I’d moved further than I thought possible.

Small beginnings don’t always look like progress, but they are. They build trust with ourselves, reminding us that we don’t need to leap—we only need to step.

If today feels too heavy, start small. Begin with what you can carry right now. Let that be enough. In time, those small beginnings will grow into something far larger than you imagined.

Mind Notes

September 22, 2025 - The Edge of Change

Change has a way of arriving quietly at first, then all at once. I often find myself clinging to what I know, even when it no longer serves me, simply because the familiar feels safer than the unknown. But the truth is, every time I’ve stepped into change—no matter how reluctant—I’ve found pieces of myself I couldn’t have discovered otherwise.

This week, I caught myself resisting a shift I knew was necessary. I wanted to hold on, to keep things as they were. But I remembered that growth rarely comes in comfort. It comes at the edges, in the places where I feel stretched, uncertain, maybe even a little afraid.

Change doesn’t always feel like progress at first. Sometimes it feels like loss. Yet in time, it reveals itself as an opening—an invitation to grow into someone softer, stronger, and more whole.

If you’re standing on the edge of change, know that hesitation is natural. Take the step anyway. What feels unsteady now may one day become the ground you trust most.

Mind Notes

September 15, 2025 - The Weight of Rest

Rest has always felt complicated to me. There’s a part of me that equates stillness with falling behind, as though pausing means I’m failing. But lately I’m learning that rest isn’t absence—it’s presence of another kind. It’s the body repairing, the mind resetting, the heart gathering enough courage to keep going.

This week, I gave myself permission to slow down without guilt. I noticed how much softer the day felt when I allowed myself to nap, to read without rushing, to sit in silence without filling it. Nothing in the world collapsed because I stopped moving. Instead, I found myself steadier when I returned.

Rest, I’m realizing, is not a sign of weakness. It’s a form of strength—an act of trust that life will still be there waiting when I rise again.

If you’re carrying too much today, I hope you let yourself set it down for a while. Rest doesn’t take you away from the journey—it makes the journey possible.

Mind Notes

September 8, 2025 - Carrying Light

On the darker days, I catch myself searching for something steady—something to remind me that I can still move forward. I’ve realized it doesn’t always take much. A kind word, a gentle memory, a moment of stillness can be enough to carry light into a place that feels heavy.

This week, I noticed how even the smallest sparks change the way I see things. A smile from a stranger, a song I’ve heard a hundred times, the warmth of a familiar routine—they don’t erase the weight, but they soften it. They remind me that hope doesn’t have to arrive in grand gestures. It can live in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the overlooked.

I’m learning that light doesn’t only come from outside—it can be something I choose to carry. In how I speak to myself, in how I pause to breathe, in how I keep moving even when the path feels dim. That light, however faint, is enough to guide me through.

If you’re searching for brightness today, look for the small sparks. They might not change everything at once, but they’ll help you take the next step. And sometimes, that’s all we need.

Mind Notes

September 1, 2025 - The First Step

Beginnings are always the hardest. There’s a hesitation in me every time I face something new—the weight of doubt, the pull of comfort, the fear of not being ready. But I’ve learned that the first step doesn’t need to be graceful. It just needs to be taken.

This morning, I thought about how often I’ve waited for the “right moment,” as though life would hand me a perfect sign. But the truth is, moments don’t arrive fully formed. They become meaningful because we choose to step into them. The first word on a blank page. The first breath after a long pause. The first decision to keep going, even when the path is unclear.

The beauty of beginnings is that they don’t have to be loud or dramatic. They can be small and quiet, unnoticed by anyone but ourselves. What matters is that they happen. And once the first step is taken, the second always feels lighter.

If you’re standing at the edge of something new, don’t wait for certainty. Begin where you are. Begin with what you have. Let the act of starting be enough.

Mind Notes

August 25, 2025 - The Quiet Work of Healing

Healing doesn’t always announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with trumpets or clear milestones you can point to. Sometimes it’s nothing more than waking up and realizing the weight you carried yesterday feels a little softer today. Sometimes it’s finding yourself laughing at something small, without that shadow of heaviness tugging it back down.

For the longest time, I thought healing had to be visible, measurable—something I could chart like progress on a graph. But I’ve learned it’s more like a tide. It ebbs and flows. Some days it pulls you back into the ache, and others it carries you gently forward, almost without notice. Both are part of the same current.

There’s no perfect pace to it. The body remembers, the heart resists, the mind circles back. Yet even in the silence, even in the stillness, the work continues. Healing moves in whispers, not declarations. It’s in the pauses, the breaths, the courage to keep going even when nothing feels new.

If you’re in the thick of it, don’t mistake the quiet for emptiness. The shift is happening, just beneath the surface. Trust it—healing rarely looks like what we imagine, but it arrives all the same.

Mind Notes

August 18, 2025 - Holding Space for What Hurts

Today, I want to reflect on the importance of holding space for what hurts—how allowing myself to acknowledge pain, instead of rushing to “fix” it, has been an essential part of living with Schizoaffective Disorder. There’s a quiet courage in sitting with the discomfort instead of turning away.

This week, I had moments where the ache in my chest felt heavier than my words could carry. My instinct was to distract myself, to move past it quickly. But instead, I chose to stay. I let myself cry. I let the weight settle. I reminded myself that feeling pain doesn’t mean I’m losing—it means I’m human.

One of the most meaningful moments came late at night, when I realized that the act of allowing pain to exist made it feel less like an enemy and more like a visitor. And visitors, eventually, leave.

Holding space for what hurts has taught me that emotions don’t need to be silenced to be survived. They can simply be heard, honored, and then released in their own time.

To those reading this: if something hurts today, let it. Give it a chair, let it speak, and know that you are still safe within yourself.

Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Your presence reminds me that pain is not a permanent place—it’s a passing moment, and we can walk through it together.