For so many people, Christmas feels like pure magic — a season wrapped in peace, gratitude, joy, and the comfort of being together. I always loved it deeply myself. There’s something incredibly comforting about gathering with loved ones and letting the world slow down without limits or worries. For years, it was my favorite holiday. But Christmas of 2020 became the complete opposite. In truth, it became the darkest season of my life and marked the beginning of a year‑long battle with my own mind while I stumbled my way back toward mental well‑being.
The road has not been easy. I have celebrated incredible highs and endured devastating lows, yet somehow I managed to claw my way out of the deep hole I had fallen into — and even reached back to help others climb out, too. Over the past 12 months, I have dug through the locked archives of my mind, searching for the roots of my struggle, making peace with my past, and trying to carve out a calmer, brighter future for myself and my family. This is my story.
The buildup to Christmas 2020 looked familiar, only sweeter, because my partner and I were expecting twin boys in February. Spirits were high as we counted down the days until work ended and the festivities could begin. Covid restrictions were still tight, so we knew the holiday would look different, but we accepted it and promised ourselves we would make the best of it. On my last day of work, I called my partner to say I was on my way home, then spent the evening showering, slipping into Christmas pajamas, and happily imagining two weeks of rest ahead.
That night felt calm. We talked about plans for our final Christmas as a couple without the huge responsibility of parenting. But as we went to bed, something shifted. My body felt strange, my mind unsettled, and although I couldn’t explain what was happening, I convinced myself that sleep would fix everything. I was wrong.
The next morning was terrifying. My mind raced uncontrollably, each thought darker than the one before. I began to believe that the only way to keep my family safe was to end my own life. It was impossible to understand, yet somehow those irrational thoughts felt logical in the moment. Panic attacks crashed over me in relentless waves. I slept through the days and spent my evenings imagining ways I could “remove the burden.” Exhaustion set in, and the longer it lasted, the further I drifted from reality. I felt trapped, terrified, and utterly alone.
At one point, I truly believed I was losing my sanity. I even phoned the doctors and told them I needed to be sectioned for my safety and for everyone around me. The turning point came just before the new year, when a friend reached out after noticing I wasn’t myself. With each message we exchanged, I felt something loosen — like the heaviness finally lifting from my chest. For the first time in days, the storm inside me went quiet, even if only briefly. It wasn’t a cure, but it was a beginning.
The next morning, I started building a recovery plan. I worked hard to recognize my triggers and removed anything that fed my anxiety — certain music, films, alcohol, even caffeine. I changed my lifestyle completely. I called my GP, explained everything, and began taking Sertraline. I wish I could say things improved instantly, but they got worse before they slowly got better.
Intrusive thoughts haunted me constantly. I knew medication alone wasn’t enough, so I added exercise — long runs, strength training — anything that gave me a temporary mental break. Progress came in tiny bursts: two steps forward, one step back, yet I refused to give up.
Remembering how talking to my friend had helped, I decided to blog about my journey. I was nervous — unsure whether anyone would care — but I had more to gain than lose. The response stunned me. People from all backgrounds reached out, saying they understood and felt seen. A small online community began to form where we shared stories, ideas, and support. For the first time in months, I felt like I belonged.
There were trolls, of course, but compared to what I’d already survived, their words barely scratched the surface. Helping others helped me. It gave me purpose, and in many ways, it was my way of honoring the friend who had helped save my life.
As February 2021 approached, the arrival of our twins loomed large. Instead of excitement, I felt dread — as though the biggest day of my life had turned into a deadline for healing. I learned the hard truth: recovery cannot be rushed. There is no shortcut. I had to learn to live with anxiety while stepping into parenthood.
When the boys arrived, life became beautifully chaotic. Their presence was both healing and heavy. They distracted me, yet my mind still battled itself. Weekends at home were the hardest, when my thoughts had more room to sink their teeth in. I tried everything: CBD oil, meditation, counseling — documenting every step so others might feel less alone. Slowly, I figured out what worked and held onto it.
Counseling changed everything. I went private with a local company, and my counselor helped me understand my anxiety and — most importantly — accept it. We explored my childhood, the patterns, the pain I had buried. Gradually, I began taking five steps forward before slipping one step back. Progress became visible. Hope returned. Bad days still come, but I now know they don’t erase the work I’ve done — they simply remind me how far I’ve come.
A year earlier, I woke up every day wishing I would die. Now, 365 days later, I feel more alive than ever. I’m not completely out of the woods, but I can finally see the exit. Recovery is still happening, but the transformation has been remarkable. I invested in myself, and I’m so grateful I did. I hate to imagine where I’d be if I hadn’t.
Today, I’m slowly re‑introducing joy back into my life, one piece at a time. This year has been brutal, but it has also taught me priceless lessons. Mental illness is devastating and silent; it tears families apart quietly. So please — check on your loved ones, even the ones who seem okay. You never really know what storms they may be facing.
I chose to fight. I chose life. I chose a safer future for my children. And I believe anyone else can, too.
Just choose you.
