To Fall, To Break, To Rise Again

Sometimes in life, it feels like we’ve crashed to the ground - and we truly believe we’ll never get up again.
Like nothing will ever change.

Sometimes it’s a huge event, one that leaves you certain you’ll never be the same.
And sometimes, it’s quieter than that. It’s been here longer.
Up and down, in and out — but the ache never seems to leave: a creeping, dull sadness that says I just can’t do this anymore.

You don’t want to keep living this version of your life — the choices you made that once felt right, but now feel like they belong to someone else entirely.
Your job. Your relationship. Your routine.
It all feels heavy. Like you're dragging yourself through each day.

And then there are the others. The ones who seem to be thriving.
Changing. Evolving.
While you’re just trying to keep your head above water
Trying to breathe in the same room.
Do the same work.
Walk through the same front door.
Watching a life you want - one that feels a million miles away.

If there were one true answer, you would’ve found it by now.
There wouldn’t be thousands of books and podcasts, or endless voices trying to show you how to fix it.

People say that in order to heal, you have to feel it all.
But what if you have?
What if you’ve tried to feel it, over and over - and yet it’s still there?

The ache.
The sadness.
The fear.
The exhaustion.

What if you have done the work - and you’re still tired?
Still stuck?
Still unable to keep going?

No one talks enough about this part.

The part where you’ve had enough.
Where you can’t feel one more feeling.
Where you’ve tried — and still, nothing has changed.
You don’t want to go back to that flat alone again.
You’re done pretending in your relationship.
You can’t sit in that office chair for one more hour.
You have tried. And tried again.

So what then?
Do you burn it all down?

Maybe.
Some people have - and they’ve made it through the fire better for it.

But for most of us - that’s not an option.

So what then?

First and foremost: nothing will instantly take that feeling away.
But I promise you - it will not always be this way,
Even if your mind keeps telling you that it will.
Even if it feels never-ending.
Your body is made to carry you through waves - and even if it doesn’t feel like, this to is just a wave.

So if you can, here are some suggestions to how you gradually, slowly, carefully might start to feel your way out of it:

Start small. Stupidly small.

Do one thing that might break the cycle. The easiest thing. A cup of tea. Making your bed. Scrambled eggs on toast. Not to fix the crash, but to remind yourself - you matter.
Just once a day.
If that’s all you can do — that’s enough.

Question the story.

The one your mind keeps repeating: Nothing has changed. It’s all the same. I haven’t moved at all. That story might feel true. But is it the whole truth? Maybe the changes are subtle. Maybe they’re buried beneath the hard days. Maybe, even without realising it, you have grown.

You’ve reached out. You’ve asked for more. You’ve cried. You’ve reflected. You’re here. Reading this.

That’s not nothing.
Don’t erase that.
Don’t take that away from yourself.

Instead of chasing better. Try different.

What even is better? Is it perfect? Effortless? Always happy?

What if, instead, you tried different? A different route. A different breakfast. A different way of speaking to yourself.

Different shows your brain that change is possible.
That it doesn’t have to stay this way forever.

Speak to someone.

You don’t have to say it all. You don’t have to pour your heart out.

Just call.
Text.
Send a voice note.

Even if you say nothing.
Even if you talk about something random.

The point isn’t to hand someone your pain - in this life we have to hold our own.
But you also don’t have to do it alone, let someone share the weight for a little bit of time. To show you even if it may feel like it, you are not alone and you never were.
That alone can shift something. Even if just for a moment.

Name what you feel.

Is it grief? Rage? Emptiness? Shame? Loneliness? That dull, aching sadness that stretches across your whole body?

Name it. Let it come forward. Say it out loud. Write it down.
Whisper it to yourself in the dark. Scream it into your pillow.

Let it take up space—because it’s already living in you.
Let it be seen. Let it breathe.

Because feelings don’t disappear when we ignore them. They bury themselves deeper.
They become harder to reach, harder to hold.

But when you name it—whatever it is—you give it shape. You give it edges. Boundaries.
And in doing that, you remind yourself: It’s not all of you. It’s just a part.

A powerful, overwhelming part, maybe. A collapsed, aching, exhausted part.
One that’s been carrying too much for too long.

But it’s not the whole of you.

And maybe you feel like you can’t name it. Like there’s nothing there.
That’s okay too.

Sit with that.
Sit with the not-knowing.

That too is an answer.

You are made of parts. Of versions. Of moments. Remember that. This one—this tired, hopeless one—is real.
But so are all the others.

The ones that are brave. The ones that keep showing up. The ones that still hope, even if they’re buried.

Parts of you are still standing. Still steady. Still strong. You just can’t feel them right now. But they’re there.
They always have been.

Move, even just a little.

Let yourself rest. But when you feel even the smallest spark of strength, try to move. Just a little. Even five minutes walking around the block. Even with a podcast playing softly in your ears so your mind has a gentle companion. Even just stretching in the kitchen while the kettle boils.

Try to walk with your pain, even for a moment. Carry it with you. Lift it up. Punch it out if you need to. Go to a park if you can, look up at the trees. Notice how the trees stand tall, the way the branches sway, even on harder days. Look up and breathe deep. Tell your body, quietly or loudly - I matter. I am still here.

Movement, even the smallest kind, is a powerful message to your nervous system. It says you haven’t given up. That something deep inside you is still trying, still fighting, still alive. It’s a way to show yourself, in a physical, undeniable way, that you are present, that you are holding on. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep going. Even just for today.

And if you can’t do any of that - that’s okay too.

If all you can do is cry, or stare, or scroll, or distract yourself - you’re still doing something.
But try and let it be a choice.

Choose rest.
Choose stillness.
Choose distraction.

But choose.

But some days, you feel like you can’t choose.
Like you’ve been swept under.

That’s okay too.

But that doesn’t mean you’ll always feel this way. Maybe on another day, you’ll wake up a little lighter.
And then, you can try something different.
A tiny shift.
A breath of fresh air.
A glimmer of hope.

But for now—just breathe.

You are still here.
You are human.
And you are doing it.