I used to be someone who never enjoyed going out alone. The thought of doing things by myself made me anxious, so I avoided it altogether. I depended on others for almost everything.

But this year, as an act of choosing myself, I took my first step: I went to my internship at The Orange Room alone. Later, as a small birthday challenge during my internship there, I walked into a restaurant by myself and ate alone. It sounds simple, but for me, it was monumental.

The fear of doing things alone didn’t come from nowhere. In my childhood, my parents had to split their attention between me and my sister because we were only one and a half years apart. I was a clingy, difficult child who wouldn’t go to anyone, and in that chaos, many of my needs slipped through unnoticed.

I grew up insecure, guarding my inner world so tightly that I became less expressive. My emotions stayed locked inside. I couldn’t show anger, couldn’t ask for help, and every time I felt low, I simply went quiet. Even getting attention made me uncomfortable, because receiving it felt unfamiliar.

I was bullied for my skin colour, and each hurtful comment pushed me deeper into silence. I convinced myself that I had to handle everything alone – not because I wanted to, but because I thought no one else would understand. Asking for help didn’t even feel like an option.

Somewhere along the way, I searched for a course that felt alive – something that wouldn’t drain me. That’s when I discovered psychology. But deep down, psychology had been meant for me all along. I wasn’t expressive, yet I always encouraged others to open up. Whenever someone shared their pain with me and felt even a little lighter afterward, it made me feel whole. What I lacked growing up, I unconsciously tried to become for others.

But life eventually pressed too hard. I reached a point where I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Days felt heavy, food tasted like nothing, and nights terrified me. I dreaded the darkness. And even then, I didn’t reach out. I survived it alone- barely, but I survived.

And surviving taught me something I had never considered: doing everything alone wasn’t strength. I wasn’t “handling it”; I was breaking.

Until one day, everything inside me erupted. I acted out of bottled emotions I had ignored for years – and that moment changed everything.

I realised that suppressing emotions doesn’t make us strong; it fractures us from within. Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s bravery. It’s choosing to live.

During my internship at The Orange Room, things began to shift. For the first time, I stepped into a space built on listening, empathy, and emotional safety. I began understanding myself with more clarity and learned how to support others in the ways I always wished someone had supported me.

The Orange Room didn’t just teach me; it allowed me to become the person I needed when I was younger.

Today, I’m learning to express my feelings with honesty, to accept myself with gentleness, and to trust that vulnerability is a path to healing. I’m grateful that I can now offer others the understanding and space I once lacked.

And I realise that life isn’t perfect even now – but I’m brave enough to heal, grow, and live.

~ Asiya

Writing about any of my personal experiences was the task I was assigned, and the question itself felt really heavy. Ending any of my experiences on a positive note felt puzzling, because when I look back, no memory has enough warmth that I’d want to relive. Somewhere, somehow, the 12-year-old girl who was genuinely happy faded away, leaving behind fragments of distorted memories.

It has been a rollercoaster of emotions and a constant hope that someone who could love and cherish me would save me-because in the end, we humans seek connection, a companion, warmth, and welcome. Throughout all the relationships-friendships, romantic or otherwise-l was never truly myself, and I never wanted to be “me,” because I was afraid of acknowledging the struggling, helpless, and hopeless version of myself.

But I do not want to quit on myself or stop learning about who I am. Rather than staying still, I would always choose small movements, even if they don’t look like steps. And maybe this is my resilience speaking-but whatever…

~ Surabhi S

The author is a Psychology Postgraduate passionate about understanding human emotions, lived experiences, and the journey toward self-acceptance. (more…)

On a random afternoon, I learned that the person I loved to death was not taking the break he had spoken of, but was cheating on me. At that moment, every atom of my life began to turn blue. My breath lost its rhythm and I let it be. That was how shattered I was.

The hurt that rolled down my cheeks still desperately wanted us back. After all, how does a heart let go of what it has carried for a septennium? Grief does not follow logic; it follows attachment.

I did not know then that the day I found out would be the easiest one to survive. Winters always begin gently before they unveil. At dusk, I sank with the sun, and no dawn ever knocked on my windows. Winter became the only season my heart could feel. What began as a quiet chill soon spread, until I froze entirely.

A strange realization slipped in quietly, I had been entangled so deeply with this person that, in his absence, I could no longer trace myself. Untangling felt impossible. Losing who I was, and walking through what followed, became more than I could carry.

My days stretched longer, heavier. I became a prisoner in my own body, limbs frozen to the point where even tears could not be wiped away. Breathing itself grew strained; a single inhale burned through all my strength. All I could do was lie still and sob.

Months passed, and I found myself craving sleep, barely eating. My body transformed into something unfamiliar, incapable of even the simplest tasks. My mind and body ached together, yet to the world, I was simply lazy.

The world moved through seasons, while I remained frozen within. My will to live dropped,and death slowly started to feel like relief. The weight I carried felt heavier than death itself. I battled guilt, the guilt of no longer feeling awe at sunrises or rainbows, even while living in a home that was safe. That guilt pulled me deeper.

I reached a point where I needed warmth, or I would turn cold beyond return. But what the world heard was a joke, that an eighteen-year-old girl had been cheated on. What no one listened to was that she was breaking enough to be done with life.

And yet, light has a way of arriving unannounced.

One day, it peeked through my windows, carrying a warmth so mild it almost went unnoticed. But even the smallest rays can begin to thaw. The icebergs of my self-doubt, Am I worthy of being loved?, began to crack when I noticed two tiny furballs waiting for me to wake, ready to stay awake just so my dark, clouded skies could hold a few stars.

They licked the hurt from my cheeks when I couldn’t. They never left my side.
Aivee and Mila, my then four-month-old puppies.

Tiny rays matter, especially when they are consistent enough to melt even the hardest ice.

I struggled for years to emerge from that winter. But that first ray gave me hope, hope that told me I was worthy of every ounce of love I received. When the clouds finally moved, I could see the stars that had always been there, pouring warmth I could not feel before, as if I was in the fog.

Later, I began again, from the rubble. I built a version of myself I know deeply: a self I can vouch for, a self that can love me even when no one does, a self I can return to when I’ve nowhere else to go.

Being human, it took years to unlearn and relearn. I learnt to sit with endings. I learnt that messiness is part of becoming. I learnt to wake up and find peace within myself, to hold my own heart gently. I learnt to stop running from what felt heavy, and to choose the harder paths that healed me.

I learnt that even the harshest winters can be softened by small, faithful rays of hope and that sometimes, all we must do is be kind to ourselves until spring arrives.

I lost years to winter when no rays reached me. But as I write this now, sitting in one of the warmest places I have ever known, The Orange Room, I ask this of you: when you need warmth, reach for it. We are here, with all that we have, to help nurture your spring into bloom.

There was a phase in my life when I honestly didn’t recognise myself. Before I even had a name for what I was going through, every day felt like dragging my body through mud. I had no energy, no interest, nothing felt exciting anymore. Getting out of bed felt like a full-time job. But I still pushed myself to go to work, because I didn’t want everything to fall apart.

 

My sleep was a mess, I cried for no reason, and I felt exhausted even after doing nothing. I kept telling myself, “It’s just a phase,” but deep inside I knew something was off.

 

Then one day, it all hit me at once. I had a breakdown so bad that I couldn’t stop crying. My chest tightened, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I genuinely felt like I was losing control. That panic attack was my wake-up call. That was the moment I realised I can’t keep going like this. I need help.

 

So I reached out for medical support. That’s when I learned I had anxiety, PMDD, and depressive traits. My doctor told me to slow down, take things gently, and even suggested a change of atmosphere. It wasn’t easy, but I resigned from my job and took a one-year break. At the time, it felt like everything in my life had paused.

 

The hardest part of that break wasn’t the free time, it was the constant feeling that I wasn’t good enough. I kept thinking, “Did I quit because I’m weak? Will I ever be able to handle work again? Will I ever feel normal?”

Those thoughts hurt more than anything else.

 

But healing isn’t dramatic. It’s slow. It’s small. And it often looks boring from the outside.

 

During that year medication helped stabilise me, reading became my escape and craft-making gave me small pockets of calm

 

Looking back, I realise something important:

It’s completely okay to slow down.

It’s okay to rest.

And I actually deserve support and compassion,just like anyone else.

 

After one and a half years, I finally went back to work. And honestly, it felt like a blessing. I got a job in a comfortable, supportive environment where I felt understood. I didn’t have to act strong or pretend to be someone else. I could just be me. And that feeling of being accepted as I am healed parts of me I didn’t even realise were hurting.

 

Today, life isn’t perfect. But it’s mine. And I’m learning to live it with more kindness toward myself.

 

If you’re going through something similar – anxiety, PMDD, depression, or just a tough phase – just remember – take your time. Start again if you need to. Ask for help. Healing is slow, but it’s real. And it’s absolutely possible.

“Sometimes, you don’t grow wrong. You just grow in the wrong room.”

 

For most of my school years, I lived with a quiet ache, the feeling of being slightly misplaced. I had friends, routines, and marks on report cards, yet something inside me stayed untouched, unseen. I often felt like a visitor in a space that wasn’t meant for me. The classrooms felt heavy, the subjects distant, and I carried the silent belief that I was average, ordinary, and not someone who fully fit anywhere. But life has gentle ways of waiting for the right moment.

COVID paused the world, and when it resumed, my life led me toward the decision my seventh-grade self once made without understanding: Psychology.

 

And suddenly, the world shifted its shape around me.

 

“And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk to bloom.”

          

Image credit: © The Anaïs Nin Foundation. All Rights Reserved.

— Anaïs Nin

Stepping into psychology felt like stepping into light. College didn’t just teach me theories; it taught me myself. For the first time, I was in a space where my softness wasn’t a misunderstanding, where my curiosity wasn’t strange, and where my quietness didn’t need to apologise. I became someone who was seen. Someone who was appreciated.Someone who finally belonged. It felt as if a part of me that had been sleeping for years finally opened its eyes and recognised itself.

 

“When a flower doesn’t bloom, you fix the environment, not the flower.”     

Image credit: © Alexander den Heijer. All Rights Reserved.

— Alexander Den Heijer

                                              

Psychology gave me language for emotions I had carried since childhood. It showed me that belonging is not about fitting everywhere. It’s about finding the one place where your inner world finally meets the outer one.

And today, being part of Let’s Live, I carry that truth with me. I want to help create the kind of spaces that once saved me — soft, safe, understanding spaces where someone who feels invisible can finally exhale and be seen.

 

“You will bloom in the place that feels like sunlight to you.”

 

If you feel out of place right now, I hope my story reminds you gently:

You are not hard to love, you are not difficult to understand, and you are not meant to shrink yourself to fit into the wrong spaces.

 

Your place exists.

And when you find it, you will bloom without even trying.