How I Learned to Bloom in the Dark
Something In The Orange
There’s something in the orange sky that tells me everything will be fine.
Zach Bryan sings it, and somehow it lands right in my chest — like a quiet promise whispered between heartbeats.
If you know me personally, you already know this:
you almost never see me in daylight.
I’ve been called many things.
“Are you human?”
“Are you a vampire?”
“We only see you when the sun sets.”
And honestly? I laugh. Because sometimes humour is easier than explaining nervous systems, autoimmune flares, and sensory overload.
So let me tell you a secret.
My brain doesn’t work like a healthy person’s.
Light hurts.
Noise overwhelms.
Smells linger too long.
Sight feels sharp.
When I step into the sun, my eyes feel like they’re filled with tiny shards of glass. My skin reacts. Blisters appear. Flares arrive without warning. The sun — something most people chase — is my biggest enemy. It leaves scars behind, both visible and invisible.
So maybe I am a hybrid.
Half human, half immortal.
Maybe a wolf. Maybe a vampire.
Pick your favourite myth.
People who don’t live in this body will never fully understand what it feels like.
And that’s okay.
I didn’t ask for this illness.
It quietly stole my twenties while everyone else was building careers, going out late, falling apart dramatically over heartbreaks that made good stories. I was building medical files. Collecting diagnoses. Learning hospital corridors better than holiday destinations.
My calendar filled with doctor’s appointments instead of adventures.
I was pill-shamed for being “too young” to need medication.
Bullied by family.
Dismissed by friends who slowly faded away.
As if age somehow grants immunity to pain.
The hardest part?
My family doesn’t believe in psychologists.
They believe in opinions.
Their own.
And only theirs.
Mental health, to them, is optional. Perspective is fixed. Healing is something you’re supposed to do quietly, preferably without inconveniencing anyone.
But trauma doesn’t work like that.
Depression doesn’t wait for permission.
PTSD doesn’t care about family traditions.
Chronic illness doesn’t soften itself for comfort.
Some days, surviving feels like a full-time job.
And yet.
There is something in the orange sky.
It shows up in small moments.
In soft sunsets.
In the way music finds you when words fail.
In my dogs curling up beside me like tiny guardians.
In my husband’s steady presence — my safe place, my calm, my reminder that I am still here.
It lives in fresh flowers.
In quiet road trips.
In crafting when my hands allow it.
In writing these words, hoping they find someone who feels alone.
I’ve learned that healing doesn’t look like a straight line.
It looks like resting without guilt.
Like choosing softness in a hard world.
Like finding joy in fragments.
Like learning to exist at your own pace.
I don’t glow in daylight.
I glow in resilience.
In empathy.
In showing up even when my body protests.
In choosing hope on days when it feels borrowed.
So if you’re reading this and your life doesn’t look like everyone else’s —
if your body has rewritten your plans —
if your mind carries more than it should —
know this:
You don’t have to be understood by everyone to be valid.
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