Themodel.Global

I’m so sorry, I forgot you
Let me catch you up to speed
I’ve been tested like the ends of
A weathered flag that’s by the sea.

Twenty 0ne Pil0ts

My mind is a relentless portal, a kaleidoscope of infinite possibilities. Every encounter, every moment, every shadow and light—my brain twists and turns them like a prism, revealing angles, truths, and insights hidden to most. I cannot help but feel, see, and sense it all from every conceivable direction, until clarity emerges. It’s both a gift and a weight, this unyielding perception. My friend once said I’m like a bell, reflecting the resonance of everyone around me, carrying their echoes within me. I suppose that’s true—I’ve spent my life holding up mirrors to others, tuning myself to their frequencies, and bearing the resonance of their joys and pain.

And there’s been no shortage of pain. Poverty, struggle, survival—they’re woven into the fabric of my life. For over a decade, I dedicated myself to becoming a clinical psychologist, all while raising two special needs children and supporting my now ex-husband, whose battle with severe bipolar disorder left no space for stability. There were moments I wondered if I would break under the pressure, but clinical psychology and finishing my doctorate became my anchor, especially in being the best role model I could be for my own children. It was the closest thing to solid ground amidst the chaos—a science capable of giving shape to the swirling infinity within me. It wasn’t just a field of study; it was my lifeline.

I finished my doctorate just as the world began to unravel with the pandemic. Up to this point, I had already been overcoming unimaginable obstacles. The next few years became the true test of my resilience. Residency came next, and with it, even greater trials. I failed the EPPP licensure exam—a bitter blow to the years I’d invested. My marriage dissolved, and my children, now grown, left the nest. Two major surgeries followed: my appendix and parts of my intestines gone, cancer revealed in the process. My body, suffering from years of being overworked and overspent, began to break down, leaving me with no option but to resign my residency. Over the last two years, my depression has gotten the best of me. Still, I push forward.

Then, fall of 2024, the chaos erupted again. My brother, once a companion in my childhood struggles, succumbed to delusions. His mental instability turned violent—a knife, a Molotov cocktail, threats against myself and my son, attacking my ex-husband with a knife. There were moments I thought we wouldn’t survive it, moments when the world felt like it was spinning out of control. And yet, amidst all this, I held to what I knew: the infinite possibilities my mind could see, the grounding force of my experience, and the knowledge I spent a lifetime struggling to accumulate. Even as my residency collapsed and I was forced to resign, I clung to the belief that understanding—true understanding—could light the way.

My story isn’t one of easy victories or neat endings. It’s one of resilience, of holding on to the threads of possibility when everything seems frayed. I’ve come to realize that survival isn’t just about getting through the day—it’s about learning to translate the chaos, to find meaning in what seems incomprehensible. It’s what keeps me anchored, even now.

I have been trying to tell this story for some time, unable to find a way to begin talking about it, particularly in the middle of a slowly blossoming and very complicated long-distance relationship. The best I can offer you is this condensed set of complicated words that minimizes the reality and enormity of all that I have faced, particularly over the last few years. I’m hopeful that as I share this story with you, the chaos will become more meaningful; therefore making all the suffering I have endured worth the effort.

Maybe we’ll even learn something together.

I have to begin somewhere.