Chapter One: Falling Into the Fire

Tomorrow marks one year since I took my last medical leave from my corporate job. While that wasn’t the start of my journey, it was the moment I fell into the fire — a breaking point that would burn away everything I thought I knew about myself and ignite a new beginning.

For months leading up to that day, I had been consumed by debilitating anxiety and depression. The flames had been smoldering beneath the surface for years, but the spark that set my world ablaze came in March 2023. A skiing accident shattered my physical stability, rupturing my ACL, partially tearing my MCL, and ripping my meniscus in two places. I was medically evacuated from the mountain, taken to urgent care, and then sent to the hospital. In an instant, my mobility was stolen from me, and with it, the coping mechanisms I had relied on for years to stay afloat.

In the months that followed, the fire spread. My mental health unraveled at an alarming rate. I had struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my life, but this was different. This was an inferno. Panic attacks, insomnia, crushing fatigue, brain fog, relentless muscle tension, and headaches became my daily reality. I felt like a phoenix trapped in its own flames—melting, dissolving, losing all sense of form.

Late that summer, I was thrust into an intense work period—relentless deadlines, seven-day workweeks, and no room to breathe. The embers of my resilience crumbled. My already fragile mental health collapsed, and I was forced to take a two-week leave. Just as I stepped away, I received the call I had been waiting for—my name had finally come up for knee surgery. Relief flooded me, not just because my knee would be repaired, but because I knew I was guaranteed an additional six weeks away from work. That relief should have been a warning sign, but I didn’t recognize it then.

I underwent surgery and focused entirely on rehabilitation—rebuilding my knee, regaining strength, and reclaiming my ability to move. In doing so, I pushed my mental health to the side, convincing myself that if my body was healing, my mind must be, too. After eight weeks away from work, I told myself I was ready. I stepped back into the office, certain that I had emerged from the ashes, stronger and renewed.

I was wrong.

On my very first day back, the flames flared up once more. A panic attack forced me to leave early, but still, I told myself I could push through. Each day, my symptoms worsened. Each day, I ignored them. The fire raged, and I stood in the middle of it, refusing to acknowledge that I was burning alive.

By mid-December, my return-to-work plan ended. I threw myself into the distractions of the holiday season—shopping, decorating, gathering with friends and family. Anything to avoid the inferno growing inside me. But as the new year arrived, the distractions disappeared, and I was left standing in the embers of my own exhaustion. Work was demanding more of me than I had to give. I pleaded for relief, but the pressure only mounted. Each day, I felt myself cracking, splintering, until finally—I shattered.

In the weeks leading up to March 7, the fire consumed me entirely. The panic attacks intensified. My exhaustion became unbearable. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function. Then came the darkest part of the blaze—the thoughts of hopelessness, worthlessness, guilt, and inadequacy. I felt like a burden, like dead weight, like ash drifting through a world that no longer had a place for me. I found myself crying at work, unable to stop, unable to even understand why.

Then came the moment that terrified me most—the moment when the fire whispered thoughts of ending it all. That was when I knew I had to act. I reached out to my doctor, my partner, my psychologist. They surrounded me with support, ensuring I got the help I needed. My doctor took me off work immediately.

When I informed my manager, I was met with indifference—cold, sharp, dismissive. At the time, I barely registered it. I was too consumed by my own survival. But looking back, I see how that moment deepened my wounds, planting the first seeds of the realization that I could never return to that workplace.

Thankfully, my leave was approved for the full three-month short-term disability period. And so, my next transformation began. The old me—the one who had spent years fighting through the flames, clinging to a life that no longer fit—was reduced to ash.

But from the ashes, something new was waiting to rise.

Up next—the cocoon stage of my healing journey.