The stillness of the morning after will haunt you. You might find yourself staring at the sky, trying to piece together how the world can still spin when you’re not sure you’re ready for it. Just like every other morning, your mom will make your favorite tea, but this time you’ll find solace in the honey packets and their sickly, syrupy promise:
There is still sweetness to be found in the world, even when everything feels overwhelmingly bitter.
As you sip, the realization that you’re still alive will sink in your chest like the leaves at the bottom of your cup. It’ll be heavy in your hands at first, but slowly, the warmth will seep into your bones.
The next morning, you’ll have an epiphany in your childhood bathroom. At first, when you step into the steamy shower, it’ll feel like a cruel contrast to the cold emptiness inside you. But you’ll allow yourself to get lost in the rhythmic drumming of water droplets against your scarred skin— a constant, reassuring pulse that reminds you of the life coursing through your veins. While the water swirls around you, the mirror will fog up, blurring the reflection of the person you once were and the person you are becoming. As the misty veil envelopes you, you’ll begin to see your strength, emerging from the fog. That’s when it hits you:
You didn’t want to die; you wanted to stop suffering. It was never about ending your existence, but about finding relief from the relentless ache inside.
In this moment, wrapped in bubbles and rose-scented body wash, you’ll grasp the profound shift from seeking escape to searching for healing. You’ll step out of the shower, water dripping off your skin, and realize that maybe the real battle isn’t over—maybe it’s just beginning, and this time, it’s about finding the kind of peace that doesn’t ask you to disappear.
Eventually, you’ll go back to school. It’ll feel beyond odd, stepping into a world that is both familiar and foreign, where you’ve changed in ways no one can see and everything else has stayed the same. You’ll feel eyes on you, some filled with concern, others with curiosity, and it will take all your strength not to shrink under their gaze. The whispers behind your back cut deep, and it’ll take intense strength to remind yourself that you can’t control anything besides your being and that these people don’t know your story—not really. It’s going to be hard. The lights will feel too bright and the hallways too loud, but you’ll force yourself to engage, even if it feels hollow and blurry at first, because this is your life, and you’re determined to reclaim it.
Slowly but surely, school will begin to feel a little bit less intimidating. You’ll start letting yourself laugh with your friends and you’ll stop ruminating on all the objects in the classroom that you could hurt yourself with. One day, a girl in your English class will say you’re smart, and for the first time, you’ll believe it. You’ll come to realize that you are a good thing just the way you are and that you deserve to be seen, not just for your pain or your struggles, but for all that you are: vulnerable, courageous, beautiful, and complete. In that moment you’ll know, with a fierceness that surprises you, that you deserve to take up space in this world. Despite everything, you are still here. And that’s something to hold on to.
Then suddenly, a year has gone by. It’s a Wednesday night, and your best friend shows up at your door with a confetti cake, pink icing hearts piped on top. The cake will be too sweet for your taste, but that’s the point—a sugar rush to the heart, saccharine and bright, like everything you’d once thought lost. A year ago, you were convinced there was nothing left to bring you joy. But here you are, on an ordinary weeknight, serving slices of sprinkled cake, with a side of hope.
It’s beautiful how the days that once felt like nothing special, if not torture, have become something precious, something to commemorate. Your failure has become something to celebrate, something sweet. The sweetness of failure is that it strips you down, bares your soul, and in that raw vulnerability, you uncover what truly matters. When everything you’ve carefully built comes crashing down, and the mask you’ve worn for so long is finally ripped away, you’re left with nothing but the truth of who you are. It’s a brutal, naked moment, standing there with your fears and flaws on display. But in that exposure, you begin to see what’s real—what you’ve been chasing, what you’ve been hiding from, and everything you’ve been too afraid to face. In the afterglow, there’s a strange freedom; you’ve already faced the worst, and it’s behind you. Every scar and every tear has paved the way for liberation.
In this moment, as you savor the cake’s sugary delight, you’re not tasting just a dessert but also the essence of renewal. The celebration of failure, embodied by the party in your kitchen, becomes a powerful reminder that surviving is a special occasion, and that every day lived is a day worth celebrating.
Whatever you are facing, there is always hope. And we will hold on to hope until you’re able to grasp it yourself. If you’re thinking about suicide, we encourage you to use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool to locate professional help and to read more stories like this one here. If you reside outside of the US, please browse our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to be connected for free, 24/7 to a trained Crisis Text Line counselor.
Karen
Wow, I never would have thought celebrating failure could be such a great thing. Thank you for being so honest and village in sharing.
Kyle
Namaste’ Beautifully written, it is shining through you, one day at a time.