What I Wish Someone Had Told Me When I Felt Broken

We all go through moments that leave their mark. Some of us carry more than others, but the truth is: no one gets through life untouched. There isn’t a soul on this planet that hasn’t tasted difficulty in one form or another.

Sometimes life hands us challenges slowly, giving us time to breathe and recover. Other times, they come all at once—stacked, chaotic, relentless. When everything crashes in a short span of time, it can feel traumatic. In those moments, all you might have are your thoughts, your beliefs about life, and maybe a few fragments of support from friends or family. Without the right guidance or tools, even the strongest of us can start to unravel.

It’s hard to pinpoint a single breaking moment. But looking back, it’s easier to see the weight of it all. The exhaustion. The disorientation. The inner scramble to make sense of something that didn’t make sense at all.

And yet—there was always a voice. Faint, but steady. A presence that whispered that this would pass. That better days would come. That voice gave me just enough to keep going.

But when I was in it—really in it—I didn’t know that voice was real. I didn’t know the darkness would shift. I didn’t understand that the thoughts in my head weren’t the whole truth. I just knew I felt tired. Disconnected. And maybe worst of all: like I was somehow failing at being human.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me when I felt broken:

You are not broken.
As painful as it may be, as much as you don’t want it, you are being reshaped. Rewritten. Re-membered.
What you’re going through isn’t a malfunction—it’s an invitation.
And I know how empty and frustrating that sounds when you’re just trying to survive—but it’s true.

No one told me that my sensitivity—and my wide, deep awareness—wasn’t weakness.
No one told me that the way I saw the world, so differently, so intensely, wasn’t a burden—but a gift.
No one told me that healing doesn’t always look like progress. It looks like circling the same pain with new eyes, until eventually… it lets go.

Even though something inside me kept whispering this will pass, I still wish someone had sat beside me and simply said:

“You are allowed to not understand this yet. And you are allowed to not fix it today.”

What saved me wasn’t a dramatic breakthrough. It was a slow remembering.
Glimpses of something brighter.
Moments of breath. Fleeting clarity.
A stillness that showed up—not because I fought for it—but because I finally stopped fighting myself.

So if you’re feeling broken right now—please hear this:

There’s nothing wrong with you.
The world is heavy, and you’ve been carrying a lot. Maybe too much.
But you’re still here. And that matters more than you know.

Let this be your permission to pause.
To soften.
To trust that even now, something in you is holding steady—just out of view, just out of reach—but real.

And if nothing else, let this be a quiet whisper from someone who’s stood at the edge:

You are not alone.