The Night I Hit Rock Bottom (And Learned to Heal)

When the mask finally shatters and you find yourself breathing for the first time

I still remember the cold bathroom tiles against my cheek, wet with tears that wouldn't stop. It was 1:27 AM. I know because I kept checking my phone as if the passing minutes might somehow rescue me from myself.

In my fifth year as a therapist, I was the 'together gay friend' everyone called for advice. Now, I was a crumpled, heaving mess on the bathroom floor, knuckles white from clutching the cold porcelain of the sink, panic clawing at my chest like something feral.

I'd been at a friend's birthday dinner four hours earlier, wearing my carefully curated smile. I listened attentively and offered the perfect insights about queer representation in media that made everyone nod appreciatively. I even shared meaningful glances with friends across the table, making connections while feeling nothing inside except this cavernous emptiness that had been swallowing me for months.

That night, something finally shattered. And thank god it did.

The Performance of My Life

I spent much of my early adul…