How did I start moving?

People often ask me, usually in a quiet moment, sometimes with tears not far behind their question: “How did you get through it all?” There’s often a pause after they ask it, like they’re wondering if it’s even okay to ask, or if maybe I’m still finding my way through.

The truth is, it’s not an easy question to answer, because there wasn’t one single turning point. There was no sudden clarity or dramatic scene where everything clicked, and I stepped out of the fog fully healed. There was no grand decision. No overnight epiphany.

What there was… was the tiniest, almost imperceptible choice to just begin. I didn’t even know where I was going at the time; I just knew I couldn’t keep living like I was. I couldn’t keep carrying everything, pretending everything was fine, while inside I was unravelling thread by thread.

I started while I was still inside it. Still deeply unsure. Still wrapped in self-doubt. Still half-believing the voice that told me I was the problem, I was too much, I was overreacting.

There was no big announcement, no internal scream of “Enough!” It was quieter than that. A soft, almost reluctant whisper inside that said, “You have to look at this. You can’t keep pushing it down forever.”

So I did what I could. I allowed myself, bit by bit, to feel what I was feeling, even though I didn’t know what to call it yet. I permitted myself to cry, without needing a reason that would convince someone else. I started noticing when my body tensed, when my stomach tightened, when I flinched, not from hands, but from words. From tones. From silences. From the chill that would fall over the room when I said something he didn’t like.

For the first time in years, I didn’t immediately silence that noticing. I didn’t tell myself to get over it, or try harder, or be better.

I let myself feel it. The confusion. The grief. The shame. The longing. The rage that had no place to go.

It was messy. Some days I felt like I was drowning in all the things I had buried just to survive. Other days, I felt numb, flat, as if nothing really mattered. But every time I let something rise instead of shoving it away, I created the tiniest space for truth. Eventually, that truth began to outgrow the lies I had been living.

One of the things that helped the most, truly, deeply, was talking to someone who knew how to listen. Not someone who gaslit me. Not someone who looked at me with pity or confusion but someone who could see through the fog without dragging me into decisions I wasn’t ready for.

She gave me space to speak, without needing to explain every word. She offered me gentle questions that led me inward, instead of pushing me forward before I was steady. She helped me connect dots I didn’t even realise were connected. Most importantly, she held up a mirror to remind me that I was not crazy, not broken, not being too sensitive, but just living inside something that was too heavy, too hard, too lonely for one woman to carry.

If you’re reading this, wondering how you’ll ever feel clear again, how you’ll ever trust your thoughts, your body, your voice, I want you to know this: You do not have to figure it all out today. You do not need to name it perfectly or explain it in a way that would make sense to someone else. You do not need to be sure to begin.

You just have to notice the part of you that already knows. The part of you that sighs when he’s gone.The part of you that tenses when he walks in. The part of you that’s reading this right now, wondering if it’s okay to admit that something hurts, even when nothing looks wrong on the outside.

That knowing part of you deserves attention. She deserves softness. She deserves support.

What got me through? Small things. Often.

Sitting with the emotion instead of turning it into action. Crying without rushing to wipe it away. Drinking tea in the quiet. Having a wine with a true friend.

Writing down things I was scared to say out loud. Letting one friend really see me. Letting one guide reflect back the patterns I couldn’t quite name on my own.

There was no fix. There was just… permission. To feel. To name. To stop pretending. To begin again - not with a plan, but with presence.

So if you’re asking yourself how you’ll get through this…

Don’t look for the finish line. Don’t wait to feel ready.

Just begin.

Feel one thing you’ve been holding. Say one truth that’s been living inside you. Take one small step toward yourself.

That’s how I got through it. One real moment at a time.