From Crisis to Confetti Cake: The Journey After Attempting to End it All

               The stillness of the morning after will haunt you. You might find yourself staring at the

morning sky, trying to piece together how the world can still spin when you’re not sure you’re

ready for it. Just like every other morning, your mom will make your favorite tea, but this time

you’ll find solace in the honey packets and their sickly, syrupy promise: there is still sweetness to

be found in the world, even when everything feels overwhelmingly bitter. As you sip, the

realization that you’re still alive will sink in your chest like the leaves at the bottom of your cup.

It’ll be heavy in your hands at first, but slowly, the warmth in your cup will seep into your bones.

               The next morning, you’ll have an epiphany in your childhood bathroom. At first, when

you step into the steamy shower, it’ll feel like a cruel contrast to the cold emptiness inside you.

But you’ll allow yourself to get lost in the rhythmic drumming of water droplets against your

scarred skin— a constant, reassuring pulse that reminds you of the life coursing through your

veins. While the water swirls around you, the mirror will fog up, blurring the reflection of the

person you once were and the person you are becoming. As the misty veil envelopes you, you’ll

begin to see your strength, emerging from the fog. That's when it hits you: you didn’t want to

die; you wanted to stop suffering. It was never about ending your existence, but about finding

relief from the relentless ache inside. In this moment, wrapped in bubbles and rose-scented body

wash, you’ll grasp the profound shift from seeking escape to searching for healing. You’ll step

out of the shower, water dripping off your skin, and realize that maybe the real battle isn’t

over—maybe it’s just beginning, and this time, it’s about finding the kind of peace that doesn’t

ask you to disappear.

               Eventually, you’ll go back to school. It’ll feel beyond odd, stepping into a world that is

both familiar and foreign, where you’ve changed in ways no one can see and everything else has

stayed the same. You’ll feel eyes on you, some filled with concern, others with curiosity, and it

will take all your strength not to shrink under their gaze. The whispers behind your back cut

deep, and it’ll take intense strength to remind yourself that you can’t control anything besides

your being, and that these people don’t know your story- not really. It's going to be hard. The

lights will feel too bright and the hallways too loud, but you’ll force yourself to engage, even if it

feels hollow and blurry at first, because this is your life, and you’re determined to reclaim it.

Slowly but surely, school will begin to feel a little bit less intimidating. You’ll start letting

yourself laugh with your friends, and you’ll stop ruminating on all the objects in the classroom

that you could hurt yourself with. One day, a girl in your English class will say you’re smart, and

for the first time, you’ll believe it; you’ll come to realize that you are a good thing just the way

you are and that you deserve to be seen, not just for your pain or your struggles, but for all that

you are: vulnerable, courageous, beautiful, and complete. And in that moment you’ll know, with

a fierceness that surprises you, that you deserve to take up space in this world. Despite

everything, you are still here. And that’s something to hold on to.

               Then suddenly, a year has gone by. It's a Wednesday night, and your best friend shows up

at your door with a confetti cake, pink icing hearts piped on top. The cake will be too sweet for

your taste, but that’s the point- a sugar rush to the heart, saccharine and bright, like everything

you’d once thought lost. A year ago, you were convinced there was nothing left to bring you joy.

But here you are, on an ordinary weeknight, serving slices of sprinkled cake, with a side of hope.

Its beautiful how the days that once felt like nothing special, if not torture, have become

something precious, something to commemorate. Your failure has become something to

celebrate, something sweet. The sweetness of failure is that it strips you down, bares your soul,

and in that raw vulnerability, you uncover what truly matters. When everything you’ve carefully

built comes crashing down, and the mask you’ve worn for so long is finally ripped away, you’re

left with nothing but the truth of who you are. It’s a brutal, naked moment, standing there with

your fears and flaws on display. But in that exposure, you begin to see what’s real—what you’ve

been chasing, what you’ve been hiding from, and everything you’ve been too afraid to face. In

the afterglow, there's a strange freedom; you’ve already faced the worst, and it’s behind you.

Every scar and every tear has paved the way for liberation. In this moment, as you savor the

cake’s sugary delight, you're not tasting just a dessert, but also the essence of renewal. The

celebration of failure, embodied by the party in your kitchen, becomes a powerful reminder that

surviving is a special occasion, and that everyday lived is a day worth celebrating.