Getting my vaccine in April felt like taking my first real breath in over a year.

I cried in the car on the way to the appointment—not out of fear, but out of emotional release. After everything, that tiny needle felt like a symbol of survival. Of making it through.

The twelve months before that moment had been the hardest of my life. I was living alone after a breakup, navigating the deep waters of isolation during a global pandemic. Some days, the quiet felt peaceful. Other days, it echoed too loudly, bringing with it waves of panic and loneliness. But slowly, one moment at a time, I began to rebuild something new.

I rearranged furniture—both literally and emotionally. I moved chairs, bought a new lamp, tried to make my space feel like a place of comfort instead of confinement. I talked myself through panic attacks. I learned how to sit with fear instead of running from it. There were long walks, familiar neighborhood sidewalks that began to feel like old friends. I rediscovered the simple pleasure of podcasts, the way someone else’s voice can make you feel a little less alone. I read books that made me cry, laugh, escape. And I leaned—hard—on a few incredible people who held me together when I couldn’t do it alone.

There wasn’t one magical turning point. Healing came quietly, in layered moments. And even now, I wouldn’t say I feel entirely “ready” for the world to open up again. But I do feel something I hadn’t in a long time: hope.

Hope that this next chapter will be gentler. That the strength I found in solitude will serve me well in community. That maybe the worst is behind us, and even if it isn’t, we’re more equipped to face it than we were before.

There’s still uncertainty ahead. But now, instead of fearing the unknown, I feel a quiet kind of thrill. I get to find out what happens next. I get to try again. And for that—for all of it—I’m endlessly, deeply grateful.