“The darkest night produces the brightest stars.”
— John Green

“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”
— Rumi

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”
— J.K. Rowling

“This too shall pass. It might pass like a kidney stone, but it will pass.”
— Unknown (the internet’s favorite realist)

“You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”
— Joseph Campbell

“I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become.”
— Carl Jung

“When you’re going through hell, keep going.”
— Winston Churchill

“Sometimes the smallest step in the right direction ends up being the biggest step of your life. Tiptoe if you must, but take the step.”
— Unknown

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.”
— Haruki Murakami

The Hard Years: When Everything Felt Like Walking Through Wet Cement

And the unlikely things that carried me to the other side

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If I had to pick a chapter of my life to title “The Hard Years,” it would be the stretch between 2019 and 2021. I’m not talking about one catastrophic event—no single lightning strike. I’m talking about the slow, grinding kind of hard. The kind where you wake up tired, go to bed tired, and spend the in-between pretending you’re not barely holding it together.

What “The Hard Years” Actually Looked Like

For me, it was a cocktail of classic adulting disasters: a job that was slowly eroding my confidence, a relationship that ended with the emotional equivalent of a door slamming in my face, and a global pandemic that decided to show up right when I was finally ready to re-enter society. (Classic timing, universe. Really funny.)

I was living in a studio apartment that felt like it was shrinking by the week. My “morning routine” became hitting snooze four times, staring at the ceiling, and negotiating with myself just to put pants on. The highlight of my week was successfully ordering groceries online without crying.

Sound dramatic? Maybe. But if you’ve been there, you know. The Hard Years aren’t always about what happens to you. Sometimes they’re about what doesn’t happen—joy, momentum, hope, the feeling that you’re moving forward instead of running in place.

What Actually Got Me Through It

Here’s the part where I’m supposed to tell you about therapy, meditation, and journaling. And yes, I did all of those things. They helped. But honestly? The things that really got me through were weirder and more human than that.

A $15 thrifted bread machine. I’m serious. I found this clunky, beige appliance at a garage sale, and something about the ritual of measuring flour, yeast, and water became my anchor. On days when nothing else made sense, I could still make something rise. The smell of fresh bread became proof that I could create something good, even when everything else felt broken.

A group chat with two friends who were also falling apart. We called it “The Dumpster Fire Support Group.” There were no inspirational quotes, no toxic positivity. Just three people sending memes at 2 AM, validating each other’s rage, and occasionally dropping off soup. We didn’t fix each other’s lives. We just made sure none of us had to sit in the dark alone.

Walking. So much walking. Not for exercise. Not for mindfulness. Just… walking. I’d put on a podcast about literally anything (true crime, ancient history, people reviewing fast food) and wander my neighborhood for an hour. Something about moving my body through space when my mind felt stuck was medicine I didn’t know I needed.

The Other Side

I won’t insult you with a “and then everything was perfect!” ending. The Hard Years don’t wrap up neatly. But they do soften. The bread machine is still on my counter. The group chat is still active. And I still walk when things feel heavy.

What got me through wasn’t a grand transformation. It was small, stubborn, deeply human things. A rhythm. A connection. A reason to get up and put one foot in front of the other.

If you’re in your own Hard Years right now, I won’t tell you to “stay positive.” I’ll just say: find your bread machine. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It just has to keep you here, keep you moving, until the light starts coming back.

And it will. Slowly. But it will.

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What’s your “Hard Years” chapter? I’d genuinely love to hear what got you through it—drop it in the comments below. We’re all just collecting survival stories out here