The Good Side

In theatre, one of the highlights of your career is landing your first acting role. After working behind the scenes, building sets, holding the seams of everyone else’s stories together — and, granted, loving it — I was finally trusted with my own story.

A lead role.

In a heart-wrenching two-hander.

I was beyond excited to share this moment with my friends. I expected them to be as supportive of me as I had always been for them.

And for a while, it felt like that.

And then it didn’t.

I had never been so successful and yet so, so alone.

I don’t know exactly when it started. The pulling away. The distance. The way I started feeling like I was standing in a room full of people who didn’t actually see me anymore.

All I know is that I tried to fix it. I reached out. I showed up. I fought for something I thought was still there.

But at some point, you have to look around and realise you’re the only one still fighting for something that’s already dead.

And it breaks you.

I shut down.

For months, I felt nothing. Not pride. Not happiness. Not even sadness — just a numb, constant, unbearable nothing.

So I relapsed.

And suddenly, I was fourteen again. Hiding blades between book pages, praying to God I would find a friend.

But somehow, somehow, I clawed my way through it.

I asked for help. My school counselor welcomed me with an open heart. I started talking. Started crying. Started feeling.

I stopped choosing people who didn’t choose me back. I started noticing the ones who were already there — the friendships I had taken for granted.

And little by little, they became my people, my tribe.

People who didn’t make me feel like I had to shrink myself just to stay loved.

At some point, someone said to me, "She’s finally on the good side." A jaw dropping statement from someone I could never have expected.

And honestly? They were right.

The friends I have now — they don’t ask me to be easy. They don’t flinch when I’m quiet, or messy, or halfway falling apart.

They see the parts of me I used to hide. And they stay. They stay.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not surviving by clinging to people who don’t reach back. I’m not begging to be chosen. I’m not bleeding myself dry just to feel worthy. I’m learning what it feels like to breathe without apologising for taking up space. To walk into a room and not wonder if I'm too much or not enough.

But I’m not there yet. God, I’m nowhere near there yet. I don’t know when, but I’ll get there. Everyday I am learning to be patient with myself and to forgive myself.

There are still days when the loneliness feels just as sharp as it did the first time.

There are nights when the numbness creeps in like an old, familiar ghost.

When I still have to fight the urge to turn pain into something tangible.

When I still catch myself aching for the people who let me go without a second glance.

Healing isn’t pretty. It isn’t easy.

It isn’t a straight line. It’s crawling. It’s breaking open. It’s starting over.

It’s messy, and painful, and slow.

It’s waking up and choosing every damn day to stay here. To stay alive. To keep going and stay hopeful. To stay soft even when the world has beaten you down.

I’m not fully there yet. But maybe — for the first time — I believe that someday, I will be.