Unraveling the Knots

It starts in the quiet of the morning, when the only thing alive is the hum of the refrigerator — loyal, unbothered, and frankly doing a better job at holding itself together than I am. The world outside still dreams, but I’m wide awake, stuck somewhere between the last flickers of my nightmares and the crushing list of things I’ve convinced myself I won’t manage today.

Anxiety. There it is. My ever-faithful companion. Not quite a friend — more like that nosy neighbour who never leaves you alone, always peeking in through the curtains. It doesn’t kick the door down. No, it slides in quietly, like a dodgy DM. First a flutter in the chest, then a storm in the brain. One moment you’re brushing your teeth, the next you’re spiralling into existential dread because you forgot to reply to a text from three weeks ago.

Then comes Depression. Less theatrical, more like someone turned the world into a black-and-white film and then forgot to press play. It doesn't shout — it seeps. It’s the reason brushing my teeth feels like a triathlon and replying to a simple message feels like being asked to explain string theory in front of a firing squad. Days blend into each other. Socks go missing. Meals are skipped. Eye contact becomes a rare and precious metal.

And then ADHD barrels in, stage left, like a toddler who just shotgunned an espresso. Imagine trying to organise your thoughts into a coherent plan when your brain is playing a game of pinball on cheat mode. Start cleaning? Suddenly I’m Googling why flamingos stand on one leg. Remember to eat? Not until I’ve reorganised the spice rack by country of origin. ADHD isn’t cute. It’s chaos in skinny jeans.

Still, it’s not all doom and gloom. There are small victories — and let’s be honest, they’re the only kind most of us get. Getting out of bed without making a full Oscar-worthy production of it? Victory. Going outside and not panicking halfway down the street? Glorious. Laughing at a meme at the right time and not six hours later in the shower? Practically a standing ovation.

The truth is, these struggles don’t come with a finish line. There’s no certificate. No trophy. No grand “You Did It!” moment. There’s just waking up, day after day, facing the chaos, and somehow finding a way through. Sometimes limping. Sometimes laughing. Often both.

Relationships? Let’s just say they take a hit. Anxiety convinces me everyone secretly hates me. Depression ensures I don’t bother finding out. ADHD forgets to reply. Yet every so often, a flicker of connection breaks through. A friend who stays. A conversation that flows. A moment that doesn’t feel like I'm faking it. Those rare, honest, unscripted bits of humanity — that’s what makes this endless uphill trudge feel slightly less pointless.

The trick — if there is one — is to find light in places no one else is looking. In the smell of coffee. In a joke so dark it needs a torch. In showing up, even when every fibre of your being tells you to stay curled up under the duvet of doom. It’s about learning to exist with the mess. To laugh at it, sometimes with it. And above all, to remember that surviving — really surviving — isn’t about always winning. It’s about always returning.

So, as the sun finally rises and the fridge hums on in solidarity, I swing my legs off the bed and stand up — not because I’m ready, but because standing is better than staying stuck. One breath. One step. One stubborn refusal to give up at a time.

Because that, in the end, is what resilience looks like. Not heroic. Not glamorous. Just bloody persistent.