From Collapse to Becoming: The Quiet Rebuild

A few months ago, I shattered.

Not in a dramatic way—but in the kind of quiet collapse only you feel. I lost a friend who meant the world to me. And it wasn’t just her. It was a whole circle. For obvious reasons, I’ll call them Claire, Ricky, and James. Though I’m not sure I really lost Ricky—he never said anything directly—but it feels as if I did. These were people I thought would always be there. It felt like my world cracked, and for a while, I wasn’t sure if I’d find a way out of that emotional fog.

At the same time, I was slowly coming out of a long-term depression that had brought years of grief and hardship. That depression changed me—I became overly attached, needy, scared, anxious. I doubted myself at every turn. I often asked myself, what’s wrong with me? What’s happening? And I never truly understood. I thought I did. So many times, I told myself, this is why I’m depressed. But the truth goes deeper—and to this day, I’m still not sure where it all began, or why it lasted so long.

After a falling out with James, I decided to take space from my closest friends—with every intention of returning. I just needed distance. I needed isolation. Time to think.
I hated that over the past couple of years, due to my depression—or maybe other reasons—we had so many, for lack of a better word, small dumb arguments that eventually led to our friendship breaking.

In the aftermath of that final argument, I cut off contact with everyone. Not just them—anyone. I stopped talking to all my friends. I spent hours writing, thinking, reading, and journaling. I was obsessed. I needed answers. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

Eventually, a friend reached out and asked if I wanted to go on a hike. I said yes.
After that weekend, a simple idea came to me:

What if I wrote letters to people?
Not just journal entries—but real letters. Ones I’d actually send. Digitally or by post.

It felt crazy. I doubted the idea. But in the end, I refused to live with regret.

So I did.

I wrote 27 letters—some sent, some kept. Not to win people back, but to say what needed to be said. To let go of things that had haunted me for years. That process nearly broke me all over again. It took a month and a half. Every letter was heavy with thought. Some took days to write—especially the one to Claire, which took nearly a week. I needed to say everything. Leave nothing out.

What made it hard wasn’t the writing. It was the reliving.
Reliving whole friendships, knowing the effort might be in vain.
But again—the fear of regret kept me going.
I was done living with the what-ifs.

The only thing I did with full intent was to leave the bad stuff out.
I could’ve gone toxic. I could’ve blamed everyone, made it bitter, dramatic—but I didn’t. That’s not who I am. And it never was.
I let go with kindness. But not everyone saw it that way. Claire, James, and Ricky were among the few who didn’t understand—and that still stings.

Sometimes, I still wonder about Claire. Of course I wish we could be friends again, even after all that happened, and how it ended. But I’d rather choose the path of forgiveness and compassion than stay angry or speak poorly about someone I once cared so deeply for.

That’s why becoming is a theme that will stay with me—because I’ve changed so much since writing those letters.

I started going to the gym with a kind of fire I hadn’t felt in years.
Not to chase revenge. Not to prove anything to anyone.
I just wanted to feel proud of the man I see in the mirror.
And with each workout, each drop of sweat, I felt the weight of the past start to lift.
Bit by bit, I was becoming someone new.
Someone lighter. Stronger. Real.

And slowly, I am.

This isn’t a comeback. It’s a becoming.

I’m not writing this blog to tell you how to heal, or grow, or glow up.
I’m just showing what it looks like when someone tries.
When someone says: “What if I gave it my all?”

Art is part of that too. I’m learning, sketching, dreaming up worlds.
TIRAND is still forming. So am I.
But I’m here.

And if you’ve ever felt lost or invisible, or like everything was falling apart—you’re not alone.
Keep going.
You're becoming too.