Writing used to be my escape hatch. When life got messy, when my chest felt tight with worry, when the ground under me felt shaky — I’d write. Words were the only place that didn’t judge me for falling apart.
Now? I’m at peace. So much peace that I joke I’m “eating away his peace” instead.
Funny how life flips.
Looking back, I realize I survived chapters I wasn’t sure I’d get through. Back then, people would drop that classic line — _“this too shall pass.”_
And honestly? I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and ask, _“But WHEN?”_
Because when you’re in the storm, uncertainty is the real killer. It’s not just the pain. It’s not knowing if there’s an end date. It’s waking up every day wondering if today will be the day it breaks, or if you’ll have to keep holding your breath for another week, another month, another year.
Nobody gives you a timeline for healing. No one hands you a calendar with “Last Bad Day” circled in red. You just have to keep walking through fog, hoping there’s solid ground somewhere ahead.
But here’s the thing I wish someone had told me: *It did pass.*
Not with fanfare. Not with a clear, cinematic “the storm is over” moment. It passed quietly. In small increments. One ordinary Tuesday when I realized I hadn’t cried that week. One morning when coffee tasted better. One night when I slept through without the 3 AM anxiety spiral.
And after the hard days… came the blissful ones.
The kind of peace that feels almost suspicious at first. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Until you slowly start to trust it. Until you realize you’re not just surviving anymore — you’re living. Laughing louder. Writing less, maybe, because you don’t need to escape. You’re finally _here_.
So if you’re in your “when will this pass?” season right now — I see you. I remember that ache. I can’t give you a date. But I can tell you this: keep going. The storm runs out of rain eventually.
And the peace after? It’s worth the wait. Sometimes, it’s so good you end up writing about “that” instead
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