The Space Between My Thoughts

Three months had passed since my last ketamine infusion.

That sentence would have sounded like nonsense to me the year before. But at the end of 2019, it marked a milestone I never expected to reach: I was no longer thinking about dying.

That sounds like a relief—and it was. But it wasn't a miracle. There was no sunrise epiphany. No easy switch flipped. It was more like I'd learned to exist a few inches to the left of my thoughts. Like I could watch them float by without having to follow them.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't fused to every restless idea in my head.

Before treatment, I didn't even realize there was a difference between my thoughts and myself. Now, I could hold them gently. Place them down. Pick others up. And more importantly, I could let them go.

Patterns and Neuroplasticity

Much of my healing wasn't just emotional—it was neurological. Ketamine gave me access to channels I didn't know I had. Pathways in my brain that had been overgrown, or abandoned, or perhaps never built. The medicine didn't fix me. But it gave me just enough room to build new patterns—and a reason to believe they could stick.

With enough structure—meditation, movement, nutrition, journaling—I found a rhythm. Not a perfect one, but a livable one.

I wasn't full of sunshine. I still wrestled with fog and shame. But I had data. I had days with sunlight. I had breath. And I had curiosity again.

Symbols and Sightings

The visuals from my ketamine sessions stayed with me—not as hallucinations, but as symbols. Anchors. Reminders. Like icons on a desktop I could double-click when I needed to feel again.

I didn't need to cry in those moments. But I knew that when I was ready, those symbols would be there to help me release what I couldn't yet name.

Integration and Strategy

I started running again—my first run since moving to Seattle. My legs remembered the weight I'd asked them to carry. I listened to my body, and it whispered its gratitude.

I didn't run for fitness or vanity. I ran because I could. I ran because it reminded me I was alive and connected. I ran because my body had been trying to reach me for years.

I ate better. I supplemented where I couldn't keep up. I meditated more. I asked better questions: What's the most beautiful thing I saw today? Have I allowed myself to feel gratitude? If I felt like crying, did I let myself?

And quietly, something changed.

Healing, Not Heroism

I don't want to sound triumphant. I still fall into my default modes. I still forget to eat. I still snap at my son. I still think I'm not good enough.

But I'm here.

I don't think about suicide as an escape plan anymore. I have tools. I have rituals. I have people.

And maybe most of all—I have a mission. If I can help one person feel less broken, less invisible, less convinced that nothing will ever help… then I've done something.

I'm not trying to be fixed. I'm trying to be free.