There was a time not too long ago when I felt like I had given up on life entirely. I don’t mean in a dramatic or reckless way. I mean the slow, quiet kind of giving up. The kind where you stop showing up for yourself. Where everything feels numb. Heavy. Detached. I wasn’t just in a rut, I was sinking into it, becoming part of it.

This season of my life looked like poor skin care, neglected hygiene, and a complete lack of energy. There was no motivation to do the basic things, no desire to show up, not even for the parts of life I used to love. Days blurred into nights filled with distractions meant to numb. Social media, TV, anything that would help me escape the emptiness I didn’t know how to climb out of. And underneath it all, my spirit was exhausted.

Sometimes I wonder how much of this disconnect is personal, and how much is systemic. As a Black woman in a world that still feels like it’s operating on race theory and loud segregation, I often feel like I’m fighting just to exist peacefully. There’s this outspoken war Blacks vs. the rest and even though we’re taught to survive, we’re rarely taught how to heal. That heaviness adds up, especially when you’re already carrying emotional weight.

I started to realize I was fighting demons, not just negative thoughts, but deeply rooted fears, suppressed emotions, old spiritual baggage. Taboos I never gave myself permission to speak about. My attitude had shifted. My personality had changed. my spirit didn’t feel like mine anymore. I was bitter. Tired. Distant. I had to ask myself: who have I become? And do I still want to be her?

I began mourning not only the version of myself I used to be, but also the people who once knew her. The ones who saw my light before it dimmed. There is grief within it all. Grief for the relationships that couldn’t survive my transformation. Grief for the girl who no longer fit into the spaces she once called home.

But even in the darkness, there was a flicker of something: the desire to create. To write again. To tell my story, even if my voice was shaky. I knew I had to finish the damn book. The one I started when I still believed in myself. When I was able to express my feelings Because if there’s one thing that’s always been mine, it’s my words. Writing has been my release, my rebellion, my restoration. An outlet. 

I plan to return to my healing grounds, the quiet places where my mind can breathe and my soul can stretch. I gave myself space to think. To feel. To remember.

Coming out of a rut is not about suddenly being “okay.” It’s about choosing yourself again and again, even when you feel like a stranger in your own skin. It’s about confronting your shadows, tending to your wounds, and creating a life that feels like truth. I’m still finding my way back but this time, I’m not giving up but pushing forward.