Born Again: A Personal Reckoning
- Ravi Patel
- 4 days ago
- 23 min read
The First Cracks
It all began around September 2024, five months after graduating from UC.
Over the summer, things were mostly fine. I had landed an internship and was still living in my college apartment while my lease ran out. For the first time, I was starting to build a real sense of independence. I was forming friendships at work, and I even went to a Cincinnati Reds game with some of them on August 5th. I was settling into a routine, and it felt like life was finally moving forward.
But even then, small cracks were forming beneath the surface.
In June and July, my mental health wasn't as steady as it seemed. I found myself fixating on things that, realistically, weren't as big as they felt in my head. I fell into the trap of trying to remember something I couldn’t fully remember. There was this lingering fear that I had done something wrong or missed something, even though I couldn't point to anything concrete. My mind kept circling the same questions: Did I mess up? Did I miss something? Is this my fault?
I tried to reason with it. I remember writing things down to ground myself, simple reminders, telling myself it wasn't that deep. At one point, after talking it through and getting some reassurance, it genuinely felt like a weight had lifted off my shoulders.
At the same time, I was actively working on myself. I wrote about my mental health, opened up about experiences like a panic attack, and tried to turn those moments into something meaningful. People connected with it more than I expected, and for the first time, I felt like I was being honest in a way that actually resonated.
By August, it felt like I was reaching a turning point. I had started building routines, leaning into meditation, and finding ways to manage my thoughts more effectively. I had picked up photography during a family trip to Gatlinburg in late June and kept practicing, first at AMC Newport on July 6th, then in my hometown on July 18th. I was slowly becoming more comfortable with myself and exploring what made me feel alive.
I started to believe I was becoming more prepared for whatever came next. That I was learning to handle things better, react better, move forward without getting stuck. I even followed up my first mental health blog post with a second one about my improved mental health — this post is no longer available, for reasons hindsight makes clear. I would have spoken too soon.
At the same time, there was a quiet expectation I placed on myself: that I should be able to handle everything on my own, that needing help meant I wasn't as far along as I thought. But in the moment, it didn't feel like pressure. It just felt like growth.
August was also physically demanding. I hadn't moved into my new apartment yet, so I was commuting over an hour to work every day, and I had picked up a second job in early August. It was exhausting, but I pushed through it. I told myself it was just a temporary storm. Even so, I felt like I was building momentum.
Then September came. It was the best month I had all year. I was finally in my new apartment, learning to cook for myself, taking care of the small things I used to overlook. I was buying records, slowing down, and genuinely enjoying my space. There was a sense of control and independence I'd been chasing for a while, and now I had it.
I wasn't just going through the motions; I was building a life. Photography had become something I genuinely enjoyed, something I devoted real time and effort to. I felt more present, more grounded, more like myself.
By the end of the month, I remember being at a family reunion, looking back and thinking: I feel good. I look good. More importantly, I feel stable. I even told a friend, "I've changed. Things feel different now, in a good way." I believed it. I thought I'd figured things out.
But if I'm honest, a small part of me didn't fully trust it. I remember telling my therapist that I had this lingering feeling it wouldn't last. That something would eventually go wrong, like it always seemed to.
Looking back, there was truth to it.
The System Collapses
October didn't fall apart all at once.
After an appointment about a health concern late the previous month, I thought everything was handled. There was a plan, a timeline, no reason to worry. But a few days later, I noticed something small, really small, and for whatever reason, I couldn't move past it. That one small moment triggered a chain reaction. Soon, it wasn't curiosity anymore; it was fear. Not because anything had actually gone wrong, but because I couldn't prove that nothing had.
Once that uncertainty set in, it didn't go away. Around the same time, a new pattern of thoughts emerged, strong, persistent, and impossible to ignore. I found myself running through scenarios, testing them, trying to reassure myself that everything was fine. But instead of calming me, it only made everything louder. I was going in circles.
It wasn't just happening in one area anymore. I started putting pressure on myself everywhere; opportunities that should have been fun felt like tests I had to pass perfectly. The more I tried to control things, the harder it became to keep everything together. It's like being hit with dodgeballs, you can only dodge so many.
And yet, even amid all of that, I found small ways to push back. On October 17–19, at the Blink photography event in Cincinnati, I got to practice my craft, take professional-quality photos, and post them online later. It was a small victory, but it reminded me I could still create, still feel capable, even when everything else felt overwhelming.
Still, the month's weight didn't ease. What started as something small had become constant, something that followed me throughout the day, sat in the back of my mind, and made everything feel heavier than it should have been. Routines that once gave me structure felt fragile. The clarity from September began to fade. The sense of control I had built wavered.
On October 19, I wrote in my notes: "What's wrong? Aren't you going to fight back..." Reading it now, it captures exactly how aware I was of slipping, and how much I was trying to summon courage even while the internal pressure built. It was like attacking the basket to score but getting hammered every time I got there.
I was still trying to push through, telling myself I'd figure it out, that it would pass, that I just needed to stay composed. But deep down, I knew I was slipping. What started as a manageable challenge had become a storm I was barely holding back. I was trying to barricade the door to keep the bad stuff from coming in.
And in that realization, I understood something crucial: I wasn't facing just a bad stretch. I was revisiting a struggle I thought I had already overcome. But I was still in the fight, still capable of glimpsing light, even in the darkest moments.
The Abyss
November felt like the aftermath of a storm I'd barely survived. October's collapse had left debris in its wake, and I was wading through it, unsure where to step next. My heart was heavy, my energy low, and the anxiety medication I'd started on November 1st hadn't kicked in yet. Recovery, peace, relief, all of it felt slow and distant.
But there were small, easy-to-miss occasions. On November 2nd, I showed up for a Halloween party. I wore a costume I felt good in, interacted casually with friends, and some moments reminded me I could still connect naturally. On the surface, no one would have noticed I was struggling. But beneath it all, it was a fragile reminder that not everything was lost, that I could, at least briefly, take a break from my problems.
My parents came by on November 5th and replaced my single mattress with a queen bed. Oddly, some nights I couldn't bring myself to sleep there. I'd retreat to the small mattress in the living room instead, searching for comfort in familiar places. These small choices, where to rest, how to spend my hours, became exercises in navigating a world that suddenly felt overwhelming.
Moments of reprieve were fleeting. On November 10th, I watched the Lions vs. Texans game. It was simple, grounding, almost therapeutic. I rewatched it a few times that month, a small anchor amidst the disarray. Panera runs, disrupted routines, irregular hydration, and low energy became my new normal. At work, I felt like a trainwreck; there were moments when I wanted to cry, moments when I told a colleague how depressed I felt. It was as if the world had slowed down just enough for me to see every crack I hadn't fixed. Like trying to patch up wounds that won't stop bleeding.
Then came November 15th, a tipping point. I completely broke down in the back office. My managers were understanding, giving me space to collect myself or leave early if needed. I had written in my notes that day: "It's okay, you're safe, I promise." Even with therapy and psychiatric support beginning to take shape, it was clear I was still very much in the alley. The depression wasn't something I could fight yet; it was something I had to endure while holding on to the faintest threads of hope.
On November 22nd, there was a brief glimmer of light, or so it seemed. My favorite artist dropped a new album, and there was a birthday party to attend. I tried to show up, take care of the small tasks, pick up the cake, be present, but the weight inside me was too much. I ended up drinking, not in celebration, but as an attempt to cope. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable, the kind of moment where a friend could honestly say, "This isn't you." And he was right. That was the last time I drank, a definitive turning point of self-awareness.
By the end of November, gradual clarity began to form. Enough was enough. I decided to give my job two weeks' notice and move back home, seeking shelter, space, and the possibility of rebuilding. November was a month of surviving rather than thriving, a period of isolation, low energy, and internal chaos. Yet even in the alley, amidst the darkness, the seeds of change were quietly taking root, preparing me for the climb ahead.
The Rescue
The rescue didn't come all at once. It showed up in small, intentional choices , quiet shifts that, over time, began to steady me.
By early December, I had already started spending more time at home than at my apartment. It wasn't an official move yet, but I knew that was where I needed to be. December 1st became the first day of something simple but significant: I stepped away from social media entirely. No scrolling, no posting, no noise. Just space.
The silence became necessary. It gave me breathing room and time to focus on what was right in front of me.
Around the same time, the medication began to take effect. It didn't fix everything overnight, but it gave me something I hadn't felt in a while: a bit of distance from the constant noise in my mind. Enough space to rest. Enough space to choose better habits.
And slowly, I started taking care of myself again.
It showed up in small ways, adding fruit to my mornings, choosing lighter meals, drinking more water, making tea occasionally. I found myself prioritizing rest, taking naps when I needed them, and paying more attention to my environment. Keeping my space clean became less about discipline and more about creating a sense of calm.
I even found comfort in simple things again. Watching an old classic, Naruto, gave me something steady to return to at the end of the day. It wasn't about escape. It was about giving my mind somewhere safe to land.
There were still moments where my thoughts tried to pull me back in, lingering worries, mental noise that hadn't fully gone away. But they felt different now. Not gone, but quieter. More distant. For the first time in a while, I didn't feel like I had to engage with every thought that crossed my mind. I could let them pass. I could rest.
By mid-December, that transition became official. On December 14th, my last day at work, I stepped away fully. What once felt like something I needed to hold onto became something I was ready to release. Stepping away didn't feel like failure, it felt necessary. I'd had enough of the beating. Now it was time to recover and trust that it would be okay.
At the same time, I started rebuilding in small but meaningful ways. On December 13th, I completed my first marketing certification. A little over a week later, on December 21st, I completed my second. They weren't just achievements; they were reminders that I was still capable of moving forward, even in a slower season.
On December 17th, I had both a psychiatric check-in and a therapy session, quiet reminders that I was still putting in the effort to bounce back.
Returning home became the most important part of it all. It was a place I had never fully appreciated before. For a long time, I saw it as somewhere I had outgrown, somewhere that didn't offer much in terms of progress. But this time, I saw it differently.
It wasn't a place for growth. It was a place for recovery.
Being around my parents, having that sense of familiarity and support, it grounded me in a way I didn't realize I needed. What once felt like a step back started to feel like a necessary pause. A chance to rebuild without pressure.
Looking back, this was the beginning of something important. Not a full recovery, not a sudden breakthrough, but a shift. A decision to step away from everything that was overwhelming me and lean into a quieter, more intentional way of living.
I wasn't trying to fix everything at once. I was just trying to take care of myself again.
And for the first time in a while, that felt like enough.
The Rebuild: January – December 2025
Going into 2025, I made a quiet decision: for a while, I was going to be hard to find. Not because I wanted to disappear entirely, but because part of me felt like I needed to step away and rebuild what I had lost, my confidence, my health, and my sense of self. I knew it would cost me socially, but it felt necessary. I was choosing myself, even if it meant things would look different from the outside. I knew there would be questions: "Where is he?" "What is he doing with his life?" "What happened to him?" The fear of missing out didn't matter, I'd miss out on so much more if I didn't figure myself out. Every day, I thought about that comeback. It ate at me. But I had to wait.
What I didn't fully realize at the time was that I wasn't just rebuilding my habits, I was learning how to rebuild my mind.
January was about creating space. I was still figuring things out, still trying to think my way through every problem, but there were early signs of progress. On January 9th, I made a significant change in how I was approaching one of my health issues. On January 15th, I had an interview that forced me to create content on the spot, something I wasn't fully ready for. It didn't work out, but it showed me exactly where I needed to grow. Instead of taking it as a loss, I used it as motivation. By January 22nd, I had completed my third marketing certification. Around the same time, I noticed something subtle but important: my thoughts didn't feel as overpowering. They were still there, but I could occasionally step back from them. That alone felt like progress.
February became about clearing space, physically and mentally. On February 18th, I finally published a blog for Refuge that I had been putting off for months. Finishing it wasn't just about content; it was about proving to myself that I could follow through, even after everything I had been through. Around the same time, I improved the SEO on my portfolio website. Then, on February 23rd, I moved out of my apartment in Cincinnati. That space had become tied to a version of myself that felt battered, and leaving it behind felt like closing a chapter. By February 25th, signs that the work was paying off were starting to show, my physical health was improving, and I had completed my fourth marketing certification. I also began spending more time working alongside my parents, learning their system while quietly building my own.
March was a month of exploration. For the first time in a while, I wasn't just trying to fix things; I was allowing myself to learn, to be curious again. I started taking the job search more seriously, not in terms of results yet, but in consistency. I expanded into areas I hadn't explored before, like finance and investing. I made space for small experiences: listening to albums I'd never explored, like Blonde, Flower Boy, and The Forever Story. I spent more time outside, revisited marketing books I'd never finished in college, "Ice of the Eskimos" and "Banana Ball,” and being around my parents more often even helped me reconnect with my Gujarati and Hindi. March wasn't about breakthroughs; it was about opening myself back up to life.
April was when I found real solace. Up until that point, I was trying to think my way out of everything, still analyzing, questioning, trying to understand every thought that crossed my mind. But then I came across a series of videos from the Solace Fox YouTube channel that introduced a different way of looking at things: what if I didn't need to engage with every thought at all?
Here's some of what I learned:
Not every thought is useful.
Thought isn't the main character.
Let your mind be a tool, not your home.
I'm not here to process reality, I'm here to experience it.
Clarity comes from stillness.
Peace comes when you're no longer filling every moment with noise.
Intelligence doesn't always shout — it watches, listens, and waits for the moment that matters, then shows up with clarity, not clutter.
For the first time, I started to understand that my thoughts weren't always mine to solve, and that clarity didn't come from digging deeper, it came from stepping back. The mind wasn't something I had to fight, fix, or constantly engage with. It was a tool, and I could choose when to use it. That shift didn't turn off the noise overnight, but it gave me something I hadn't had in a while: a grounding perspective. A place to rest and just let thoughts pass. I could exist without constantly trying to figure everything out.
With that clarity, other parts of my life began to stabilize. I started working out again, even if it wasn't fully consistent yet, and I brought photography back into my routine, practicing at a relative's baby shower. I also continued writing, including a blog post about the Indian show C.I.D., which my parents and I had been watching together, making the process feel personal and meaningful again. I showed up to social settings on my own terms, including a birthday party where I chose not to drink, reminding myself that I could be present and enjoy the moment without relying on anything external. April wasn't about doing more. It was about doing things differently.
May was when I learned how to protect my energy. I realized that progress wasn't just about adding better habits, it was about removing what was quietly working against me. I started paying attention to the small things that affected my mental clarity: sleep, environment, overstimulation, and habits that drained energy without me noticing. I built simple systems to stay focused and energized. I was becoming more intentional about how I spent my time.
At the same time, I began stepping back into the world more. I attended NBA playoff games: Cavaliers vs. Pacers, Game 2 of the Semifinals, and Pacers vs. Knicks, Game 4 of the Conference Finals (I wasn't a Pacers fan, just there for the experience).For a May 9th weekend, I traveled to Canada with my parents to surprise my sister for her birthday, using one of my new systems, a short-trip travel guide, to maximize my time there. I also continued improving my portfolio. But the difference now was that I wasn't losing myself in those moments. I could engage, enjoy, and still stay grounded. Around this time, the job search became more intentional and consistent. I wasn't just preparing anymore, I was applying, showing up, giving myself a chance in the arena.
June felt like alignment. On my 23rd birthday, I took a moment to reflect on everything that had happened, not just the setbacks, but the progress I had quietly built over months. A few days later, I found out I had landed a summer internship. It wasn't the main goal, but it was proof that the work was leading somewhere. Instead of slowing down, I kept going, continuing to build momentum, and staying consistent.
By mid-June, my routines had become more structured. I started a six-week workout regimen and began my internship on June 18th, giving my days a new sense of purpose and direction. Around the same time, I finished six months on my medication, a milestone that reflected how hard I'd been working on my mental health.
More importantly, I noticed a shift in how I approached life. I wasn't just reacting anymore. I was starting to think in terms of who I wanted to become, making decisions with that version of myself in mind. Writing, creating, working, showing up, it all started to feel connected.
July was mostly quiet, but in a different way than before. It wasn't quiet because I was stuck; it was quiet because things were finally steady.
I continued building on the routines I had established. I finished the six-week workout program I'd started in June, a small but meaningful sign that I could stay consistent with something over time. I was doing well in my internship. I finished "One of Us Is Lying," kept exploring new music, and made time to watch a few movies in theaters. I stayed loosely connected with friends, checking in through messages, but kept my focus where it needed to be.
More than anything, July felt familiar, in a good way. It reminded me of how I felt the previous September, when life seemed to be moving in the right direction. But this time, it felt different. More earned. The routines, the mindset, the discipline, they felt less temporary. I trusted them more.
But toward the end of the month, I noticed something. An illness depleted my energy for a few days, and my internship didn't end how I thought it would. Not a collapse, just small cracks. Enough to remind me to pay attention.
August was the first month that truly tested everything I had built.
Up until that point, each month had felt like progress. August didn't. It felt like something I thought I had moved past had returned, and more than anything, it felt like a betrayal, echoing what had happened back in October 2024.
The beginning of the month still carried momentum. I was developing new creative ideas, experimenting with TikTok content creation, and working on building situational awareness, trying to be more present and grounded in my surroundings. How could I protect myself, or the people I care about?
But gradually, things shifted.
The intrusive thoughts returned, stronger and more difficult to ignore. This time, I found myself trying to solve them again, analyzing and overthinking in ways that pulled me back into mental loops. What started as something manageable became constant. Like being stuck in sandpaper.
At the same time, external pressure built. Unexpected family situations and repeated questions about my future made it harder to find stability. There were jokes I didn't find funny, but couldn't escape. My environment felt overwhelming, and my room became the only place that felt like shelter. Physical concerns added another layer of frustration, making it harder to trust the progress I had made.
I decided to return to medication, not as a step backward, but to stabilize. Even then, things didn't immediately improve. I remember being at a family event and feeling completely off, like I was physically there but mentally somewhere else. Dissociating.
But this time, something was different.
Instead of unraveling, I leaned into my creative side. I developed new mental health guides and gave myself tools to navigate the chaos: Being Safe Physically, Being Safe Mentally, Emergency Safety Anchors. They didn't fix everything overnight, but they gave me something I didn't have before, a way to respond.
I wasn't just reacting anymore. I was adapting.
By the end of the month, one thought captured it best: I had faced the hardest stretch of the year so far, and I hadn't lost myself.
September became proof.
The previous year had pulled me into a deeper spiral after a difficult month. But this time was different. The weight was still there, but it didn't take me under. I stayed afloat.
I went back to what worked, revisiting the Overcoming Unwanted Intrusive Thoughts book, not out of desperation, but as reinforcement. Here's some of what I was reminded of:
Thoughts that repeat are stuck, not important.
The RJAFTP framework: Recognize, Just thoughts, Accept and allow, Float and feel, let Time pass, Process.
Seven myths worth unlearning: that our thoughts are under our control; that thoughts reveal our character or our inner self; that the unconscious mind can affect our actions; that thinking something makes it more or less likely to happen; that only sick people have intrusive thoughts.
I continued building my mental system, creating guides for navigating intrusive thoughts, grounding myself at night, and understanding moments of disconnection with more clarity. Intrusive Thought Response Script. Dissociation Guide.
I also started reclaiming parts of life that had felt uncertain. On September 10th, I traveled to Michigan for a concert, turning a place that had recently felt heavy into something positive. I showed up professionally too, making it to a final interview for a full-time role. While it was without the outcome I wanted, it proved something important: I could still compete, still earn opportunities, even while managing everything internally.
I also took a step I had been building toward: I created my first NBA TikTok. Small, but it represented me taking action without waiting for conditions to be perfect.
September wasn't about avoiding difficulty. It was about proving I could move through it without losing myself. It felt like redemption.
October brought clarity and direction. I wasn't in the abyss this time, instead, I was reading about someone who had experienced it.
This was when I found inspiration in an unexpected place. I picked up Daredevil comics, Born Again and The Man Without Fear, and something about those stories resonated deeply, especially Born Again. The idea of losing everything and rebuilding, not perfectly but intentionally, mirrored what I had been going through.
That's when the idea for this blog began to form. Born Again: A Personal Reckoning. Not just a reflection, but a project, a way to document the journey, paired with a visual element that symbolizes rebuilding confidence through action.
Am I a blind superhero? No. But I was looking to become someone who has counters to things he just can't see. Someone who can sense when something is wrong and immediately has a response, through guides, through books, through the system I'd been building. Something else that clicked was the "I beat you" speech at the end of Daredevil season 3. I started listening to it intentionally. I wanted that moment badly. When I finally conquer my problems physically and mentally, I can say: I BEAT YOU.
I stayed active in the job search, attending networking events and continuing to push forward. And I kept building my mental framework, creating more structured guides and finishing the intrusive thoughts book. The Intrusive Thoughts Recovery Plan.
Here's some of what I took from the long-term approach:
Planned Exposure Practice — deliberately facing feared thoughts or triggers without avoidance or reassurance-seeking.
Emotional Processing & Inhibitory Learning — staying with anxiety until it naturally decreases; building new, calm responses.
Consistency & Repetition — practicing regularly so the brain learns intrusive thoughts aren't threats.
Tolerance of Discomfort — letting discomfort exist; it's temporary and harmless.
Shifting Beliefs — changing what you believe thoughts mean (not danger, not a moral flaw).
Strengthening the Wise Mind — letting the observing self guide you, not fear or reassurance-seeking.
October felt like alignment, where reflection, understanding, and action started to come together.
November was quiet again, and that was okay.
The Dissociation Made Simple book introduced me to a new therapeutic opportunity: craniosacral therapy on November 4th. A way to release tension from the body. If I was feeling stressed, burned out from the job search, or just didn't want to keep bottling things up, this became my outlet.
I created more mental health guides and tools to help me navigate thoughts, regulate my mindset, and stay grounded in moments that used to feel overwhelming. Perception Check. Off-Switch Ritual. Dissociation Style guide. These systems became something I could rely on, not just experiment with.
Here's some of what I learned about dissociation as it applies to me:
The mind drifts as a way to manage emotions, boredom, or overstimulation — a natural, adaptive response.
It can show up as daydreaming or hazy awareness, and may cause missed details or confusion in conversations.
It acts as a protective mechanism, shielding from overstimulation and keeping mental energy balanced.
When it happens: stay calm and name it — "I'm drifting." Then ground using your senses: 3 things you see, 2 things you hear, 1 thing you feel. Ask yourself: do I need rest, focus, or stimulation?
I stayed connected to creativity, practicing photography at a relative's wedding and continuing to refine my skills. I reconnected with a friend I hadn't seen in a while, a reminder that I could step back into social spaces without losing myself.
Even small external changes reflected internal growth. I adjusted my personal style, subtle shifts that symbolized confidence returning in ways that felt natural. New clothes. A scarf added to the attire, which for me was a symbol of change.
Professionally, I continued pushing forward. For the third time, I reached a final-round interview. The outcome didn't change, but the pattern did. I consistently put myself in positions where opportunities could arise.
November wasn't loud, but it was steady. And that steadiness mattered.
December became the final test.
The question wasn't just how I would finish the year, it was how I would handle stepping into something completely different. With a three-week trip to India approaching, I wasn't sure how I would maintain everything I had built in an unfamiliar environment. It had been six years.
At the start of the month, I looked for ways to ground myself. I tried new methods, like a sensory deprivation tank on December 13th to settle my mind and body, while continuing to reflect and prepare for what was ahead.
Then the trip began.
And it tested my resolve.
The routines I had built weren't as accessible. The environment was different. The structure was gone. But instead of falling apart, I adapted, and got it out of the mud.
I learned to interrupt thought spirals early instead of getting caught in them. I focused on practical self-regulation: rest, movement, hydration, solving problems in real time. I tolerated discomfort without immediately treating it as danger. I stopped chasing certainty and moved forward without it.
When external situations felt out of my control, I built stronger internal boundaries. I protected my mental space instead of relying on everything around me to feel stable. And over time, something shifted. Thoughts became less overwhelming. My reactions became more calculated. I wasn't just managing anymore, I was responding well.
I was also physically tested in India, and somehow I didn't get sick. Besides a stuffy nose, no signs of a cold or illness.
By the end of the year, the biggest change was internal. I replaced self-doubt with self-trust, not perfectly, but consistently.
I realized I hadn't just rebuilt in a controlled environment.
I had learned I could carry stability with me anywhere, if I put in the effort.
The New Calm
The new year began while I was still in India, doing what I do best, holding it together before the return home. And it worked. Coming back wasn't without weight, though. There were things I didn't want to leave behind, feelings, moments, a version of the trip I wasn't ready to close. But I came back feeling like a man who had passed a real test. 2026 arrived, and I knew it was time to start preparing to be seen again.
But it wasn't smooth sailing.
Two more final interviews. Two more moments where I was right there, and both slipped away in the most gut-wrenching ways. The first: a simple AI role-play assignment, and my laptop fails me at the worst possible moment. The interviewer didn't believe me. Told me I wasn't taking accountability. I'll say it here: you were wrong. I was telling the truth. And accountability goes both ways.
Three weeks later, another final interview. No technical issues this time. Everyone was smiling. They told me I'd hear back in two days. Those two days turned into weeks of silence and moving goalposts, before they finally told me they were still looking at other people. That one hurt differently.
Both times, I was pushing through burnout. Both times, I released the tension, craniosacral therapy, reset, and right back to it. One way or another, Northeast Ohio, I'll be there.
And somewhere in all of that, I realized something. Being Born Again was never going to come from an offer letter. Even though getting that job would've felt like winning a title, it was never the thing that was going to make me whole. I had to write my own story. No one else was going to do it for me.
So what am I doing now? Pausing for a moment in Austin, TX. Still learning. Still growing. Staying persistent in my job search. Even reading a new book, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers, about managing stress, while figuring out which side quests I haven't explored yet. But here's what's different this time.
I trust it.
Not blindly, I've earned it. I have mental health guides on my phone I can pull up in real time. Docs and screenshots for stuck thoughts, physical concerns, perception checks, grounding anchors. Things I built myself, through the journey, because no book or therapist alone was going to hand me the answers. I had to go find them. I had to learn how my own mind and body work so I could adjust and respond accordingly.
And it's working. What used to put me out of commission for weeks now lasts only half a day, or sometimes even less. I can feel something coming, name it, and respond before it takes me under. Like Daredevil, I cannot always see the danger, but I have learned to sense it. I had to be patient, listen, and let thoughts play out while trusting that I would be grounded again. I realized I was capable because I created the anchors that bring me back; only then could I respond accordingly.
This isn't September 2024, where everything felt high and I was quietly waiting to collapse. I have the answers now. I've been tested, multiple times, and I responded. Every single time.
So yeah. For my mental health:
You don’t get to destroy how I am.
Photography Credits: Tim B. Links:
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