Mental health isn’t always a visible battle—but last weekend, mine screamed in silence. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to get out of bed.
I wanted the curtains drawn — all super dark, no lights, no nothing. I wanted to lie in silence and let the stillness carry the weight of everything I couldn’t say. I wanted to bask in my loneliness, in my dark thoughts, in my self-hatred, in the sadness that seemed to ooze from my bones. I wanted to mourn. Mourn for what I had, what I’ve lost, and what I may never have.
And you know what? I was okay with that.
Because sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is just feel.
I let myself sink into it. I gave myself permission to feel sorry for myself, to hate the legs that no longer work, to scream in my mind at the cruel randomness of paralysis, to grieve the life I imagined for myself before everything changed. I let the anger flow — at the world, at God, at fate, at my own body. I lay there, letting the tide of emotions drown out the constant push to “be strong,” “stay positive,” or “keep going.”
The next day, I wasn’t magically okay. The darkness didn’t lift like a curtain with the morning sun. I still felt the heaviness, like a boulder lodged inside my chest. But I carried it. Quietly. Carefully. Tenderly. I went through the motions of my day — smile here, reply there — but the weight was real.
And yet, today, as I write this, I feel amazing.
I don’t know when the fog started lifting. Maybe it was the morning breeze on my face. Maybe it was the song that played on repeat and somehow cracked open a space in my heart. Maybe it was simply time passing. But here I am — alive, breathing, and strangely hopeful.
You see, people often say, “I admire how you’ve accepted your situation.” And while I appreciate the sentiment, I wish they knew the full story.
Yes, I’ve accepted that I’m a paraplegic. What choice did I have? I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t get a memo. No one asked for my consent. One moment, I was walking, and the next, my legs became ornamental — they’re there, but they do nothing. Décor.
Acceptance wasn’t a peaceful surrender. It was war. It was survival. It was me clawing my way through confusion, shame, pain, and despair — until I could finally say, “Okay. This is what it is. Now what?”
And yet — even in this acceptance — I’m allowed to mourn. I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to feel jealous when I see people run, hike, or dance without a thought. I’m allowed to miss spontaneity, to grieve the dreams I had to modify, postpone, or bury altogether.
I’m allowed to lie in bed some days and cry until my chest hurts. I’m allowed to cancel plans because I just can’t. I’m allowed to acknowledge that this life, though full of beauty, is also deeply hard.
I think society has taught us that “strength” means suppressing pain. That we’re “winning” when we don’t talk about the ugly parts. But I don’t want to be silent about those days. Not anymore.
Mental health matters — and for people with disabilities, it matters even more. We carry more than just physical limitations. We carry the weight of inaccessibility, of being underestimated, of navigating a world that wasn’t built for us. We carry fears — real and imagined — about our worth, our future, our independence.
We carry grief that keeps revisiting in cycles — each time we hit a new barrier or face a new loss.
But we also carry light. We carry resilience. We carry stories of survival, of laughter in the dark, of moments that heal.
It took me years to learn bladder and bowel management — things that many take for granted. Years to find a wheelchair that didn’t feel like a prison. Years to feel like I wasn’t just existing, but actually living.
And yet, even now — even with all the wins — the sad days still come. That doesn’t mean I’m weak. It means I’m human.
So, if you’ve ever looked at someone and thought, “Wow, they’ve got it all together,” please remember: we don’t. We’re learning, stumbling, hurting, healing. Over and over again.
To anyone reading this and feeling broken, sad, numb, or angry — I see you. I know it’s not easy. I know it feels heavy. I know you may not have the energy to smile, respond to messages, or explain what’s wrong. That’s okay.
Take the time you need. Stay in bed if you must. Cry. Journal. Listen to sad music. Be still. Just don’t judge yourself for it. You are not weak for feeling. You are not ungrateful for grieving. You are not alone.
Your mental health journey is valid. And your darkest thoughts don’t make you less worthy of love or joy or respect.
As for me? I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep sharing. I’ll keep living — with all the highs and lows, the dark and the light.
Because the only way out is through. And together, we’ll get there.
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