Chapter Nine: Still Breathing

There was no big moment. No confetti, no sunrise epiphany, no voice from the sky saying, “You made it.”

Healing didn’t arrive all at once—it creeps in like morning light under a heavy door, happening as she breathes, and sometimes, slamming it shut.

At first, she didn’t even notice it.

She was too busy surviving, too used to bracing for impact, too accustomed to starting over again with nothing but a trash bag full of donated clothes and a mind full of landmines.

But one day, she caught herself laughing.

Not the forced kind. Not the performative smile that masks exhaustion.

A real laugh—sudden and bright, like it came from a part of her that hadn’t spoken in years.

That’s when she knew: something had changed.

Not fixed. Not erased.

But softened.

She was still waking up in sweats from the dreams. Still double-checking doors. Still feeling uneasy as if someone is watching her eat. Still feeling shame. Still flinching when certain songs played or when someone said her daughter’s name.  But she wasn’t drowning anymore.

She was floating. And that was enough—for now.

In the quiet of her new space—small, but hers—she began to build a rhythm. Morning coffee. Journal entries. The same meditation frequency every night. She hung affirmations on her computer, even if she didn’t believe them all yet. She cooked for herself. Brushed her hair. Reached out to a friend without needing a crisis to justify it.

These were not small things. They were proof. Proof that healing was not about being “cured,” but about choosing, every single day, to keep living with honesty and effort. About holding onto a piece of ice to help stay present. She still struggles with reality and alters, and says she doesn’t remember when she doesn’t. She no longer believes she has to respond to everything someone says. She found it was okay to eat Fritos and bean dip, or drink a cold beer, the guilt and shame are gone. 

She still used the workbook she had created—updating it, expanding it. What began as a survival tool became a map of growth.

One page for grounding.

One page for identifying which “part” of her was in the lead.

One for triggers and how she made it through.

And one, just one, where she wrote something kind to herself each day.

It was awkward at first.

Then it became habit.

Then it became lifeline.

She started volunteering—small shifts at a shelter, a crisis line, helping women who reminded her of herself.

Not from a place of superiority, but from solidarity.

She told them:

“I know what it’s like to hate yourself and still want to live.”

“I know what it’s like to think no one will ever love you again.”

“I’m still here. So are you.”

And that meant something.

For the first time in years, she allowed herself to hope without apology.

Hope for a letter from her daughter.

She holds onto hope—Hope for a relationship built on truth, not survival.

Hope for mornings that didn’t ache, and nights that didn’t echo.

Some days were still heavy, but she carried them differently now. She stopped waiting for the “right moment” and started living in the one she had.

She chose to stay—not because it was easy, but because she was still breathing. And that meant there was still life left to live—a life with purpose, meant for God. She may have wandered, but grace always welcomes, even the late bloomer.

The greatest blessing we can receive is to be a blessing to those who walk beside us—to reflect God’s love in every step, to find the purpose He placed within us, and to live it fully, for His glory and the good of others.