FIVE YEARS.

Five years. It’s a marker we often measure against—whether in career milestones, personal growth, or life’s unpredictable journey. I was curious (okay, I Googled) why five years carries such weight, but no definitive answer surfaced. Maybe it’s because we have five fingers, and moving beyond one hand feels like a leap. The number five often symbolizes freedom, curiosity, and transformation. There’s spiritual significance, too, with Christianity and Judaism embracing the power of five. But my connection to this number isn’t rooted in anything that deep. Simply put—I made it. Five years.

That’s 60 months, 260 weeks, or 1,825 days. The milestones feel monumental when you find yourself on a path you never chose. Some days, you’re counting each one—day by day, week by week, and if you’re fortunate, month by month. Sometimes, though, the counting feels more like survival, measured hour by hour, each moment charging you like a roadside motel that feels too seedy to stay, but you can’t leave. The method doesn’t matter so much as the act of counting itself. It keeps you tethered to something, anything, in those moments you need it most.

The last five years have seen a pandemic, personal losses, professional heartache, and the relentless rhythm of everyday life. To say I’ve made it through feels like a small victory, and yet, after everything, I find myself wondering: what’s one more year? And still, each moment can land with the weight of a thousand. Nothing about these five years has been easy.

THE TOLL OF MENTAL ILLNESS ON THE BODY.

Mental illness doesn’t just affect the mind; it also leaves its mark on the body. Anxiety, depression, and trauma have a way of seeping into your bones, your muscles, and your very being. The stress can leave you exhausted even after a whole night’s sleep. Sometimes, the mental fog is so thick it feels like you’re walking through quicksand.

In these five years, I’ve witnessed my body weather the storm of mental illness. I’ve gained weight and lost it. I’ve battled insomnia, struggled with appetite changes, and felt the deep exhaustion that no amount of rest can seem to cure. Mental illness disrupts everything—from your heart rate to your immune system—turning even the most basic tasks into mountains to climb.

And then there’s the matter of medication. Psych meds, while life-saving for many, can wreak havoc on your body. The side effects can feel like their own battle—weight fluctuations, numbness, fatigue, and even cognitive dulling. And when the time comes to step off those meds, it’s another journey entirely. The withdrawal process can be grueling, with your body craving the balance those pills once provided. The dizziness, the brain zaps, the emotional rollercoaster—it’s a steep price to pay for getting back to “yourself.”

WHAT I’VE LEARNED.

These five years have taught me more than I ever thought possible. I’ve learned that survival isn’t a glamorous feat; it’s messy, slow, and often thankless. But it’s also deeply transformative. The person who stood at the start of this journey isn’t the same one standing here today.

I’ve learned that healing is not a straight line. Grief, trauma, and mental illness bend time in strange ways. One day, you can feel like you’re making strides, and the next, you’re right back at the beginning. But that’s okay. Progress isn’t measured by how few setbacks you have but by how you get up after each one.

I’ve always known the importance of compassion for others, but learning to extend that same kindness to myself has been a hard-won lesson. It’s something I’m still working on because life doesn’t always give you the space to practice self-compassion. Allowing myself to feel—without judgment or the need to "fix" everything—has been a constant work in progress. Some days, survival is all I can manage, and recognizing that doesn’t make me weak; it shows me the quiet strength within. Learning to give myself grace, especially when things feel overwhelming, is part of my healing. It’s not about thriving every day—it’s about allowing myself to just be, even when life makes it hard to find that space.

FIVE YEARS.

Five years, and it’s okay that things are still messy. Healing doesn’t follow a straight path, and survival rarely looks the way we imagine it will. There’s no finish line where everything suddenly makes sense, no moment when the weight lifts completely. Instead, it’s about learning to carry that weight a little more easily, even when it feels overwhelming.

These years have shown me that life isn’t about having everything together. It’s about navigating the uncertainty, setbacks, and chaos and finding moments of peace within them. Some days, it’s enough to just keep moving, to take the next breath, even when the world feels heavy. The messiness doesn’t diminish the progress I’ve made—it’s part of what makes the journey real. Reflecting on this journey, I often think of the person who held my hand in the emergency room, loving me when I couldn’t bear to look at myself. Your steady presence was a lifeline during those dark moments, and that love is still a source of strength for me today. I’m still here, partly because of your support, and while I sometimes wonder if I truly deserve that love, I deeply appreciate your unwavering kindness and how you showed up for me without hesitation—always encouraging me, even when I felt like a lost cause.

Five years isn’t the end of the story. It’s a marker, a reminder that I’m still here despite everything. I’ve stumbled, fallen, and risen again more times than I can count, and that’s where the real depth of survival lies—in the constant getting back up, in the resilience that grows from the most challenging moments. I’m still a work in progress, learning and healing. And that’s okay.

Life doesn’t always give us the space to heal fully; maybe it never will. But I’ve learned to carve out space for myself and find room for grace, even when life is loud and relentless. Five years down, I’m still standing and navigating this mess. That, in itself, is a quiet victory—not because things are perfect, but because they don’t have to be. I don’t have to be. Five years of survival, growth, and learning to live with unanswered questions is more than enough.