I started therapy for the first time after Skyler died. His absence left this heavy, angry, hollow space inside me that I didn’t know how to deal with. I had already been carrying so much—childhood trauma, constant moves, getting bullied at every new school, and finally thinking I’d found a sense of belonging. Life was starting to look up. I finally felt seen. But when Skyler was gone, all that pain came flooding back like it had just been waiting for its moment.
My mom dragged me to therapy. I didn’t want to go. She had no idea what kind of things she’d be hearing once I finally opened up. Years of stuff I never talked about. Things I barely let myself think about. One therapist turned into another, then another. Some helped, some didn’t. In the middle of all of that were boyfriends, heartbreaks, and moments that felt good—until they didn’t. There were still laughs, memories I cherish, but also this constant inner battle I was fighting every day.
After Skyler passed, I threw myself into karate. I had already been doing it, but now it became my survival tool. My outlet. My anchor. I was so angry—angry at how he left this world, and then terrified because I started to understand why. I started thinking the same way. Karate kept me going. It was my structure, my safe space, my distraction.
I stuck with it for 10 years—up until senior year of high school. That’s when I left the dojo and met my first serious boyfriend. For two years, he took me on an emotional rollercoaster through hell. I didn’t see it then, but looking back, I was trying to find safety in people instead of finding it in myself.
Therapy, karate, loss, love, heartbreak—it’s all tangled together in the story of how I survived. And I'm still untangling it, one piece at a time.
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