I didn’t expect to get rescued in darkness that night. In fact, I wasn’t even looking for help. I was mostly just… spiraling. Somewhere between too tired to cry and too numb to explain why. You know those nights? The kind where your phone’s at 4%, your soul’s at about 2%, and the world outside your window just feels a little too loud and a little too far away. Yeah. That kind of night.

Moreover, I hadn’t made dinner. I’d eaten half a sleeve of crackers and something that may have once been cheese, and was still in yesterday’s jeans. Not even the stretchy ones, the bad kind. Meanwhile, darkness filled the room, aside from that weird, blinking glow coming in through the window. That light was seriously messing with my head. Like it couldn’t decide whether to exist or not, which felt way too metaphorical for 10:37 p.m.

Anyway. That was the scene. Nothing dramatic. No thunderstorm. No broken-down car. Just me, my mood, and the slow sinking sense that something inside was caving in.

Tiny Cracks that Grew Over Time

I always thought nothing could break me. Like, emotionally. I prided myself on being the “rock” friend. The “you can vent to me anytime” person.

But I didn’t hold space for myself. Not really. I just buried my crap under jokes and busy schedules, and “I’m just tired” excuses.

And over time, that catches up. You get little hints at first, snapping at the barista, forgetting things, and zoning out during conversations you used to care about. Then one day, you realize it’s been weeks since you felt anything real. Just a dull, low-level hum of “meh.”

For me, it hit hardest when I noticed I had stopped making playlists. That sounds dumb, I know, but music used to be my lifeline. My therapy. My mirror. When I stopped curating songs for how I felt or wanted to feel was when I should’ve known. Something was off. Really off.

When Darkness Feels Like Home

Now, I don’t want to dramatize this into some sob story. Nothing huge happened. I didn’t lose anyone, I wasn’t broke or sick or heartbroken. But somehow, I was falling apart anyway. Quietly.

That’s the thing about darkness descending. It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it slips in like fog. You don’t see it until it’s sitting on your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine, it’s just a rough patch. Maybe you need more sleep. Or magnesium. Or sunlight. But nothing sticks.

That night, sitting there with half my mind scrolling through a dead phone and the other half arguing with itself about whether or not to cry, I honestly thought, This is just who I am now. And that thought was scarier than anything.

It felt permanent. Like I’d gone too far down and missed the off-ramp. Like I’d become someone who doesn’t come back. Someone who watches the world move from a distance and starts to believe that the distance is safer.

A Text, a Voice, and Something Shifts

This is the part where the story turns. Not dramatically, not like in movies where someone kicks in a door or shouts, “I’m here!” Nope. My turning point came through a text. One I almost didn’t open.

It was from someone I hadn’t talked to in months. Just a simple:
“Hey. I caught myself wondering how you’ve been. You good?”

Honestly? I stared at it for five minutes before replying. Part of me wanted to say “yeah, all good!” and keep the wall up. But something broke. I typed:
“I’m not. Just being honest with you.”

And that reply? It cracked the silence.

The night fades into a warm blur after that. She called. I cried. She talked. I said things I hadn’t said out loud to anyone. About feeling like a shell. That deep fear I had of never finding my way back. About how small and stuck I felt.

She didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t offer quotes or advice. She just stayed on the line, even when I didn’t have words. That phone call felt like someone reaching a hand into a well and saying, “I’m not pulling you out today. But I see you. And I’m here.”

And maybe that was enough. That’s what rescued in darkness looked like for me. Not a dramatic rescue. A quiet presence. A voice that reminded me I hadn’t disappeared. Not completely.

Healing Comes in Layers

The thing is, darkness healing doesn’t happen in a moment. It’s not one conversation, one breakthrough, one perfect morning with birdsong and lavender tea. It’s slower than that. Sometimes boring. Sometimes messy.

There were days I still woke up heavy. Days I didn’t return texts. Days when brushing my teeth felt like climbing Everest. But there were also days I noticed the sky again. Laughed at something stupid. Remembered to play music during my shower.

That’s what darkness healing looks like, I think. It’s not light flooding in all at once; rather, a little flickers. Soft, almost forgettable wins. You have to squint to see them sometimes. But they’re there.

I started going for walks again. Just ten minutes. Walking in circles with headphones on, no goal in mind. I started jotting down emotions, sloppy lines on old scraps, and anything I could grab. And eventually, I started reaching out to people again. Not a lot. Just enough to remember I wasn’t alone.

It was never linear. Some weeks felt like steps forward. Some weeks, it felt like I was dragging my limbs through mud. But I was moving. Slowly, painfully, imperfectly, still, it was moving.

When You Realize You’re Still Here

Here’s the part that still surprises me. It wasn’t instant. One day, I simply noticed I could stay afloat. I was still tired. Still had doubts. But I could breathe again.

That old version of me was the one who made playlists, sent memes, and remembered birthdays, but she wasn’t gone. She’d just been buried under a lot of noise. She was still in there, waiting.

And when I realized that? I started rebuilding. On my own terms this time.

Not because I felt pressured. Not because I wanted to prove anything. But because I finally believed I was allowed to take up space again. That I wasn’t broken beyond repair. 

And if you’ve ever been in that place, you probably know how much that realization means. To go from thinking “this is it” to thinking, maybe not.

Maybe there’s still something left in you. Something worth uncovering.

Full Circle, Kind Of

So yeah. That’s how I got rescued in darkness.

Not by a superhero. Not by a miracle. But by a small act of noticing. A small but powerful reminder that I wasn’t lost. Not really. Someone could still reach through.

And no, I’m not some beacon of wisdom now. I still have off days. I still get lost in my head. But I’ve learned to talk back to the darkness. To tell it, “Not today. Not like that.”

Because here’s the truth: when darkness descending hits, it tries to convince you that this version of you is all there is. It lies. It always lies.

You are not the sum of your lowest point, not just the quiet.

Even a random text at 10:37 p.m. can be someone’s way of saying, You’re not forgotten.

If you're here, still reading this, maybe it found you for a reason.

I think I needed to write it as much as you might’ve needed to hear it.

Maybe we're both just finding our way back, slowly and gently.

And even when everything feels dim, like the best of you has slipped away,

someone still sees you. Someone still cares

It’s not perfect. But it’s yours.

And it starts here.