Dear Diary,
I've been reading back through this diary tonight. All the entries from September until now. It's strange to see how much has changed in just a few months.
September me was so scared. She couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe, couldn't function. She thought moving schools would fix everything, but she brought all her problems with her in an invisible suitcase. I don't blame her for that anymore. She was doing her best to survive.
Today in my session with Mrs. De Wit, we talked about how far I've come. "You should be proud," she said. "The work you've done—with yourself and with others—is remarkable."
I told her I still have bad days. Days when the panic comes back, when I can't stop counting exits, when the sound of a fire alarm makes my heart race. "That's normal," she said. "Healing isn't linear. It's messy and complicated and sometimes you take steps backward. But you have the tools now to handle those days." She's right. I do have tools now. I have breathing exercises, grounding techniques, people I can talk to. I have Maya.
This afternoon, I did something I've been putting off for months. I wrote a letter to Emma, my old friend from Springfield High. I finally told her the truth about why I left. About the fire, about the panic attacks, about how I couldn't walk into that building anymore without feeling like I was suffocating. I hit send before I could overthink it.
She replied an hour later: "I wish you'd told me sooner. I thought you just didn't want to be friends anymore. I'm so sorry you went through that alone. You're so brave for getting help." Brave. I never thought of myself as brave. But maybe she's right. Maybe asking for help is brave. Maybe surviving is brave.
At dinner tonight, I told my parents something I've been thinking about for weeks. "I think I want to study psychology," I said. "I want to help people the way Mrs. De Wit helped me." My dad's eyes got watery, which almost never happens. "I think you'd be amazing at that," he said. Even my little sister chimed in. "You're already helping people with your buddy thing."
She's right. I am.
On Monday, there's a new student starting. Her name is Jen, and she's transferring mid-year because of family issues. Mrs. De Wit asked if I'd be her buddy. I said yes without hesitation.
A few months ago, that would have terrified me. But now? Now I know exactly what she needs. Someone to show her she's not alone. Someone who understands that starting over is terrifying. Someone who can say, "It gets better. I promise." I can be that person now.
Tonight, I'm writing this final entry in this diary—at least, the final entry of this chapter of my life. I'll keep writing, of course. But this feels like the end of something and the beginning of something else.
I survived a fire. I survived the trauma that came after. I survived feeling alone and scared and broken. And now I'm helping other people survive their own fires, whatever form those fires take.
The circle is complete. But it's not really an ending—it's more like a spiral. Growing outward, reaching more people, creating more connections.
On Monday, I'll meet Jen. I'll show her around. I'll be there for her. And maybe, just maybe, I'll help her realize what I've learned:
'You can't run from your problems. You can't escape your trauma by changing your location. But you can face it. You can heal. You can turn your pain into something that helps others.'
You can survive. And then you can do more than survive.
You can live.
The circle is complete.
- G