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There are days when everything feels heavier. Some days fold in on themselves. The light feels dimmer, your breath feels heavier, and your own thoughts echo louder than ever. On days like these, it's terrifyingly easy to give in to the darkness, to forget the truth and believe that this single, aching moment is the whole story. But a bad day, or even many, does not equate to a lifetime. A bad day is a cloud passing through the sun that still shines brightly. The cloud may feel colossal, sinister, and overpowering... But that cloud can never extinguish the sun. A bad day may slow you, bend you, exhaust you, but it can never define you. It can never erase the laughter you've lived, the progress you've made, or the hope that flickered in you yesterday and will return again tomorrow. Do you know what a bad day means? It means you're alive . It means you're still here, still fighting - and that matters more than anything. The difference between a bad day and a bad life is simply the fact that... one ends. The other doesn't. And your life? It's still inundated with pages you haven't written yet. There are still so many memories to make, so much love to experience, and peace so serene that you cannot even fathom it yet. It's okay to crumble today. You're allowed to feel lost, scared, or even numb. But don't mistake the weight of today for the shape of your entire life. Your story is bigger than this hour. Your heart is greater than this heaviness. And your strength? I cannot begin to quantify how strong you are. Keep remembering, that the light will always return. The tide pulls back. The pain will fade. Remember that emotions have motion - everything is temporary, and nothing remains stagnant forever. Hold onto hope, faith, and magic - because they exist. Not in the way that fairy tales told us, but in the way that we get to experience life. There's magic in the way our heart beats, the way we breathe, and the way we love and dream. Every fibre and cell in your body is fighting for you, and that in itself is magical. Let this day be what it is - a passing shadow. Don't give it the power of a lifetime. You are still becoming. You are still unfolding. You are still here . And that alone is proof that your life is so much more than today. With all my love, Sach x

If you're reading this, it means that you made it to a point that you once deemed impossible. You overcame the hurdles thrown in your way and you're still here. I hope you're somewhere safe, basking in all the joy that life has to offer, and breathing easier than the girl I am today. I wonder what you've carried with you through the years - the scars, the lessons, the laughter. I wonder, do you still look in the mirror and see a stranger? Or have you found a way to come home to yourself? Right now, it's August 2025, I'm 23 years old, and some days still feel impossibly heavy. For 11 years, I have carried hurricanes in my soul, lived through nights that seemed endless, and fought battles no one else saw. But even here, even now, there is hope hiding in my heart. Writing to you is proof of that - proof that I believe in a tomorrow worth fighting for. I hope you're proud of me. Proud that, through every tear shed, I didn't give up even when it felt tempting. Proud that I kept choosing life, even when my mind told me otherwise. Proud that I turned pain into purpose, that I started building Serenity not just as a brand, but as a sanctuary for me and others. Future me, I hope you still laugh at the silly things. I hope you still sing too loudly when your favourite playlist is on. I hope you haven't lost the wild, carefree part of you that dances like no one's watching. I hope you're grateful for all the luxuries you have, and for how far you have come. And I hope you remember that life isn't about survival, that life is meant to be lived, felt, and cherished. I hope you're surrounded by people who see you - really see you - and love you in the strong and steady way you always deserved. But I also hope that you've built enough strength to stand tall on your own, to know your worth without needing anyone to confirm it. I hope you've kept fighting for your dream - a home for those who are hurting, a place where no one feels alone in the darkness. Serenity by Sach is just a seed right now, but I hope you've nurtured it into something bigger than yourself. And if it's still blooming, that's okay too - flowers take time to grow. I also hope, that if life hasn't gone exactly the way we dreamed, that you're gentle with yourself. I hope you know that growth isn't linear, and healing is not a straight road. I hope you remember that each obstacle you face is teaching you something, and that you welcome each lesson with open arms. I hope you maintain faith, and trust that even the detours and delays are leading you somewhere meaningful. But most of all, I hope you're at peace with who you are. Not a polished, perfect version of yourself, but the real you. The one who has scars and stories, laughter and losses, light and shadows. Even now, I'm still learning that all of those belong. All of it makes us who we are, and we are pretty awesome. So if you're reading this, just know that I am rooting for you, that I love you, and that I'm ever so proud of you. Know that through all the storms, clouds, and rain, the sun will eventually shine through. With love, Sach x

We always get told that home is our safe place, and that our parents will be the people who stand by us no matter what. Coming to terms with the fact that this wasn’t true for me was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. For as long as I can remember through my entire childhood, I was subject to abuse - physical, emotional, mental, and sexual. School was my safe place, it was where I went to escape, where I always felt more at home and where I could be myself. I didn’t do well at making friends and always got on better with the staff (something that makes a lot more sense now that I know I’m autistic). I was always the “weird kid” in my classes and was bullied through school, but despite this, school was still the place I wanted to be – anywhere was better than home. As I reached secondary school and my peers started having more mature and in-depth conversations, I started realising what was happening at home wasn’t normal. I tried to talk about it to my friends but they didn’t seem to grasp the severity of what I was saying – and I don’t blame them, we were all just kids. I knew that if I spoke to my teachers they would most likely take it seriously, but I knew absolutely nothing about the system and the processes that would be triggered if I did – my biggest fear was that I would speak up, it would get reported, and someone would tell my parents that I had reported it but nothing would actually get done. I couldn’t handle everything that was already going on PLUS them knowing I had told school – so I stayed silent. At this time my mental health was at the lowest it has ever been. I was extremely depressed and suicidal, self-harming daily, and struggling with anorexia and insomnia. I hoped desperately that someone at school would notice and intervene, but as I was managing to keep my grades up (mainly out of fear, as my grades slipping would not have helped the situation at home), everybody assumed nothing could be going wrong. It was at this point that I also realised I was gay (at the time, I thought I was bisexual) – once this got found out, the situation at home only worsened. Then, my worst nightmare – pandemic, lockdown, home for almost a year with nobody but my parents. To be honest, I can’t share much about this time because I don’t remember most of it – there are year-long periods of my childhood that I can’t recall at all due to trauma. This is also when I worked out that I was transgender, specifically transmasculine. Given how poorly coming out as bi went, this had to join the long list of secrets I had to do my best to hide at home. As I approached sixth form, it became clear that the only way out for me would be to move far away to University – but this meant I had to get the grades. I began struggling more with autism at school, having to leave lessons due to overstimulation and meltdowns, as well as due to PTSD flashbacks. To top it all off, at the end of Year 12 my parents essentially tricked me into coming out as trans to them by pretending they were okay with it until I admitted it, and then doing a total 180. The abuse continued, the emotional side turning towards what I now believe is narcissistic abuse. My grades were slowly dropping, my attendance was down, my extra-curricular participation was non-existent; but still, somehow, I slipped under the radar. This was apparent on results day: I was predicted 4 A*s, and came out with a C in one of my subjects – but the important thing is, I did enough to meet my grade requirements to a university 200 miles away!! Fast forward to summer of 2025. I’ve just completed my second year at university. I’m over a year no contact with my parents. I’m in a loving and stable relationship of nearly two years, I have supportive friends, and I live in a house that feels safe. I am still in the process of being diagnosed, but I believe as a result of my childhood, I have c-PTSD, OCD, and severe anxiety. I’m on SSRIs, which has helped with the depression, but I’m still working on the anxiety. I’ve been diagnosed with gender dysphoria and am almost two months on testosterone! The other thing I’m dealing with is disability and chronic illness. I got COVID in 2021 and that triggered some issues, and then I got it again in 2024 and that made them significantly worse. The chronic illnesses I have are also very influenced by stress and trauma, and I believe based on the timings of them starting and worsening that these are also in part due to the abuse I faced. I’m now a full-time manual wheelchair user, and am on many diagnostic pathways for several chronic illnesses – currently I’m diagnosed with Long Covid, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Headache and Migraine, and Asthma, and I’m in the system somewhere on a waiting list for POTS, ME/CFS and potentially IBD. Navigating life with energy limiting conditions, and seeing how my mental health and physical health feed into and affect each other, has been a complex and long process, and one I will be managing for the rest of my life, but I feel positive that continuing to put the right support in place for myself such as accommodations and mobility aids, as well as continuing to pursue medical testing and treatment, will enable me to both live a life that I enjoy and manage my illnesses alongside it.  It’s a long and tricky process to rewire my brain into knowing that it is safe, that I am allowed to have needs and to be my own person, rather than the insane mould my parents tried to force me into. I’m still working on it, the healing is not linear in the slightest and is going to take a long time. But having made the scary decision to leave, to cut them off and to get out was for me the hardest part, and anything I need to do after that to continue recovering and healing seems doable in comparison.  I love my life right now. I’m grateful for my boyfriend, his family, and my friends. I’m determined to keep healing and to make sure that the people who ruined the start of my life don’t get any say on how the rest of it goes.

There's a kind of silence that no one warns you about. It's not a peaceful, serene silence, but the deafening kind that screams and shouts louder than you ever could. It's not the noise that overwhelms me, it's the silence. The silence of no response after you let your guard down, the hush of unanswered messages, the quiet of 3am nights when your thoughts are louder than your heartbeat. The absence of laughter, the yearn for someone to hold your hand, the loss of presence in your life. We often talk about the chaos, the noise, the loudness. But there is sorrow in silence. For those of us who struggle with their mental health, silence can be haunting. Silence can feel like a void, a vacancy, an emptiness. It serves as a reminder of everything we're still carrying. Silence can overwhelm your body with ache. It's the kind of pain that echoes and convinces you that you're truly alone in your anguish. The silence screams "why didn't they check in?", or "why does it feel like I'm disappearing and no one's noticing?". When I was deep in my struggle with bipolar disorder, there were moments when the silence felt heavier than any symptom. It wasn't the mood swings or the racing thoughts, but the stillness that followed. Like an aftershock. The silence became my shadow. The silence is loud whether you're hurting or healing. When you're healing, growth is quiet. It doesn't come with fireworks or applause. It comes in small victories, like getting out of bed and brushing your teeth. No one sees those wins but you. And that can feel isolating. But here's what I'm beginning to learn. Silence isn't always empty. Sometimes, it's trying to tell you something. When the silence is loud - let it speak. What is it trying to tell you? Is it grief? Loneliness? Exhaustion? Burnout? Whatever it is, it's asking to be seen and heard. The silence may be loud, but it holds meaning. When you start to listen to the silence, and truly understand it, that's where healing begins. Sitting in the silence, letting it wash over you, without running from it, is how your mind, heart, and soul begin to heal. Once you learn to embrace the silence, it becomes less deafening. One day, it may even soften. The silence is where you discover yourself, where you uncover the depths of your true essence. In the stillness, you begin to notice your breath again. You begin to hear your truth, under the weight of the world's expectations. You begin to realise you made it through every hard day, and that matters. If you're in a season of silence right now, just know that you're not the only one. You're not broken or unlovable. You are right where you need to be to begin to heal. With love always, Sach x

When Sach first asked me to write a piece for her blog, I hesitated.  I hesitated because I felt like I didn’t have anything hopeful or inspiring to say at the moment, and I wanted to write a piece about how therapy changed my life and how much I progressed after years of CBT. Unfortunately, at the moment I’m in a rut. But, I know I want to share how much personal transformation has taken place the past few years and how much transformation can still happen, despite my current feelings. The point of this blog is that healing is not linear.  I have had chronic generalised anxiety, panic disorder, and emetophobia since I can remember. There was no specific event that brought it on, it's always been a part of me. I ignored it for many years because the fear I had felt comical and ridiculous to me and would to most people. Having a debilitating fear of vomit sounds made-up. But it’s very real and has plagued my entire life.  It started as a small fear about vomiting and engulfed my life throughout my teens where I was afraid to go to school and to use public transport. I was afraid of hot weather, travelling too far from home, drinking, exercising too much, eating too little, being trapped in an assembly hall, school trips, sleepovers, and about everything else you can loosely link to the possibility of vomiting. I spent most of my school years having panic attacks in the medical room, leaving classes, and staying home.  It wasn’t until I started emetophobia specific CBT (alongside medication), that my life started to change for the better. It was a gruelling couple of years of exposure therapy and dissecting my whole belief system and understanding why it was wrong. When I got better, I managed to move into University to have my first normal experience as a young adult. I got better and better and eventually moved away from home into London alone. I was cured. My friends and I would reminisce and laugh about the years I spent afraid of everything and how different I was now.  In the last 6 months my anxiety has slowly crept back into my life and I didn’t notice it because I was so preoccupied with being cured.  I’ve started therapy again as I’ve slowly felt myself turn into the panic-ridden child I had always been. I’ve realised I never fully detached myself from the beliefs I had surrounding my anxiety and all its intricacies. With all this being said, I know now more than ever that healing is not linear and you have to put work in every day to get better. It’s exhausting but I’ve seen what happens when it works, and when it works, it's life-changing. I’ve learnt everyone is on a different timeline and something that someone could do without hesitation, would take me months of therapy.  So for the next weeks, months, or years - however long it takes this time, I'll be working to get myself back to the old me, or transforming into a completely new me. I don’t know what will happen, but I’m going to stick around to find out.

I have been surrounded by mental health professionals my whole life, maybe that’s why it took everyone so long to figure out what was happening to me. I waded through the worst of mental health because I knew what “bad” looked like, and I didn’t want to ask for help for fear of it not being “bad enough”. I heard constant stories of unimaginable trauma, and they were used repeatedly to minimise any complaint I made. I was constantly afraid that my despair was not justified and I’d be pushed aside, no matter how much I suffered. Before I hit my teens I knew that pain stopped my thoughts from racing, and sometimes even elicited compassion or worry from adults who had ignored me until then. I have been going to therapy on and off since I was 14, and 10 years later I am still unravelling my motivations. My parents suspected there was something wrong when I started showing ‘unexplainable’ injuries all over my body, so I started talking therapy. Once a week I would speak to a large man about my repetitive and intrusive thoughts. His advice involved misappropriation of Buddhist practices and forgiving those treating me badly because my anger would only hurt me in the long run. He breached confidentiality and I lost any trust I had left in adults. The next psychologist made me feel so guilty I only saw her twice. I drew a tree and she told me that if I harmed myself too badly I’d lose the function of my hands. Teachers had started to notice my decline, and I stopped going to class. I’d sit for hours in the staircase landing of my apartment building, too scared to go outside but unable to hide in my room. I’d walk around at night, hungry and scared, looking only at the pavement tiles and music blasting in my ears. I thought that by disappearing someone would notice my absence - I was asking for help without putting in the effort to be vulnerable. I was convinced everyone in my vicinity was able to read my thoughts, but they were refusing to help me. After blood tests, an EKG, an fMRI, and an X-ray of my lungs, I was referred to the pediatric psychiatric hospital. Becoming a “psych patient” before I turned 16 seemed like the end of the world; I was torn between wanting help and feeling trapped. Six months of CBT ensued, but I continued unresponsive to treatment. I was assigned a little number that would flash on a screen before I walked into the dark therapy room. I’d sit in the uncomfortable chair, crying every week about the same things, begging to be shaken out of the strange trance I had slipped into so long ago. Eventually I was transferred to a DBT research programme for teenagers with severe interpersonal issues. My days were filled to the brim with activities, anything to make sure I wasn’t left unsupervised: dance and maths lessons, art school, volunteering, studying, writing, hikes and trips with friends. Group and individual therapy, emotional recognition homework, collecting my prescription at the pharmacy, and weekly injections that came in bright red bottles. I slept a lot and ate very little, partly due to medication side effects, and was riddled with nightmares. I kept hearing the same from professionals: you have to forgive them, that happened so long ago, you have no evidence, you have to change the way you think. Looking back, I am incredibly thankful of all the effort my loved ones made to ensure I was safe, even if I didn’t understand it then (it is very degrading to not be allowed to close the bathroom door). The late night conversations, the coffees and shared pastries, the desperate attempts to connect with me over dinner. It’s difficult to see that people love you when you don’t love yourself, and no amount of reassurance fills the gap that only you can patch. When I got accepted into University, the hospital discharged me and notified my mother that they had gotten my treatment plan completely wrong. I moved country with a small box of antipsychotics and no chance to ask for a refill unless I underwent the awful process of talking to more professionals. During my degree I found myself falling back into my self-destructive patterns, and I put my relationships in danger. But I survived with the support of those around me and graduated with a bachelor’s in Psychology. I met my current therapist, a wonderful woman who listened to the snotty story of my life until we decided I needed to do trauma-focused work. A couple of times I have contacted GPs to help manage my flashbacks and symptoms, and have been prescribed all sorts of SSRIs and SNRIs with little to no follow-up. The only answer I got from the locum was to join the waiting list for CBT, and my health notes were full of comments like: “reports being tired but able to clean”. I have always wondered if the way I look or the way I speak makes health professionals take me less seriously. I have slipped through the system without one specific label fully sticking, it started with generalised anxiety, until I developed co-morbid depression; I was then told I had borderline personality disorder, they suspected stress induced psychosis, and got recommended by a psychiatrist to pursue an autism diagnosis. Currently, I’m being treated for complex PTSD, but I’m comfortable knowing that it is my pain and it does not need a label to be real.  I am still working on myself through EMDR and schema therapy, as I try to live a life that makes me feel connected and fulfilled. I work in a field that fascinates me, and I use my personal experiences of being misunderstood to advocate for individuals being ignored by the mental health system. I don’t wish to sugarcoat anything, I still struggle with the same things I did ten years ago, but now I have the skills to cause less damage to myself and those around me. There’s still nightmares and intrusive thoughts, and I hate going outside alone. But now I do things I was never able to, like enjoying a nice meal with no guilt, talking loudly in class, asking my friends for advice when I’m stressed, and dancing for hours to terrible music. If there’s anything I want to highlight from my journey is that learning to take care of yourself, to live compassionately, takes time and effort. Practice makes perfect (or close enough), and practice looks like vulnerability, anger, honesty, anxiety, gratitude, patience, and acceptance. Diary entry from 17/03/2025 - “Life moves on, and I’m holding on with claws.”

In my first two years of school, I wasn’t aware I looked different. I knew my skin and hair colour were more melanated, but I didn’t know how much it would affect me as my schooling continued. In Australia, racism is casual, sewn into the fabric of the culture. It is ingrained in the minds of [some] young children, the notion that all people that look like me are not meant to be here, (despite the fact I was born here).  From Year 3 onwards, my caucasian classmates sought to other me, laughing at my choice of uniform length (no joke), my choice of school shoes (huh), my stationery (I’m 100% serious) my hair length (this is silly), my oiled hair (ludicrous) and most regularly and cruelly, my skin colour. “Poopy, dirty, ugly”, and more wonderful verbiage were used to describe my skin colour. I was able to change every other thing, but the one thing I couldn’t change was my skin colour, (I mean there’s Fair and Lovely (iykyk),  but no one would have sold that to an 8-year-old). The bullying was relentless, people pretending to be my friends so they could use information told in confidence as ammunition to laugh at me. I was never free. It happened in the classroom, the playground, and even the school bathroom. They would follow me into the bathroom and would stand in all possible escape routes. I still vividly remember freaking out one time and screaming. They all ran away and a teacher came to help me out. I said the lock got jammed because I couldn’t tell them that four of the nice girls had caged me into the bathroom stall. After all, that’s crazy (!). After similar situations, I became very claustrophobic, something that I still deal with. It was after another extremely traumatic situation that I finally told my year 3 teacher about what was happening, to which he responded, “You probably deserved it”. Imagine being a fully grown man telling an 8-year-old girl that she deserved these things. After this, I held a resentment for teachers, believing this was their collective sentiment. Too many things happened for me to write in this post, and a lot of it is very traumatic and, if it was done by an adult, frankly illegal. It all came to a head in my longest hospitalisation in 2018. There I was diagnosed with PTSD. I was still having flashbacks 8 years later, and seeing them in public would send me into a tailspin. Because of these bullies, my self-loathing was all-consuming. My life began crumbling away at 8, and I almost fell off the ledge at 16, which is when I finally began to rebuild. For a long time, I rejected female friendships because I was sure that any friendship with a girl would result in them using secrets to hurt me. I hid as much of my body as possible and began overcompensating with a strong Australian accent in public and fearing the sun because God forbid I became browner (ahhh!!). It came to a point that I preferred my arms being covered in scars because it beat them being brown (and darker than the rest of my body).  Ironically, social media helped. Seeing all of these people online appreciating/appropriating our culture and changing facets of their aesthetics to look more like me, selfishly made me feel better about myself because I get my curly hair and tan for free! Seeing the girlies with their mehndi and festival girlies with their pottus (lowkey problematic), I realised everyone wants a piece of this South Asian culture. It's a shame that people tend to reject it when it's on the source, but it has taught me to love myself. Being an immigrant, it is always a struggle to blend our two cultures, or even if you choose to blend the cultures, and the motives behind them, whether or not it is your choice to make others more comfortable but, in the end, accepting my Sri Lankan-ness did help with my mental health journey. Your culture isn’t something that should be shamed out of you!

There's a version of me I haven't seen in a long time. She was light. Silly. Chaotic. A little weird. She laughed with her whole body. She danced in the kitchen even when there was no music playing. She pulled funny faces and made crude jokes at the worst times. She had a fire in her belly so ferocious that no one could take away. I miss her. Lately, I've been living with a fog all around me. Not always heavy, but always there. It feels like a kind of omnipresent darkness that will never fade away. My smile feels forced. My laugh, quieter. My effervescent humour - something that used to roll off me like second nature - is buried beneath layers of heaviness I never asked for. It's like I've been watching life through a window that I can't quite open. Don't get me wrong, I'm still here - still functioning. But something feels... dulled. My sparkle, dimmed. I've been asking myself " Where did the old me go? ". And more painfully, " will she ever come back? ". We don't always lose ourselves all at once. Sometimes, we slowly forget the parts of ourselves that used to effortlessly glow. It's hard to endure that kind of loss. Because no one died. But in a way, it feels like a part of me did... However, I don't think she's gone. I don't think she's lost in the abyss. I think she's there, albeit beneath layers of sorrow and darkness, but she's there. She's just waiting for safe spaces, soft moments, and the quiet return of hope. She's hiding in the shadows... but I will find her. So today, I'm choosing to trust that my light will return. Not all at once, not in a flood. But in tiny, quiet sparks. In a joke that slips out. In a memory that makes me giggle. In a moment where I'm smiling for no reason. There's no pressure. No timeline. But when she does come back - the funny, weird, dancing in the kitchen and singing from the top of her lungs type of me - I'll welcome her like an old friend. If you're feeling like this too, if you miss a part of yourself that used to shine, just know that you're not broken. You're not lost. The sparkle in your eyes is still there. It may be hidden beneath the tears, but the glimmer is not gone. You're still you. Always. With love, Sach x

Logically, I know there are people that love me. But here I am, at 4am sitting here writing this, feeling more alone than I ever have. My heart feels heavy and I'm feeling a sense of loss. So, here's to the people who are waiting to be loved for who they truly are. Here's to the people longing to be seen. Here's to the people that are constantly glancing at an empty phone. Spoiler alert... [No new messages]. To the lonely souls out there, I see you. Maybe not in the way the world does, through passing glances and empty conversations, but in the way that truly matters. I see the quiet ache you carry, the longing for someone to truly understand, the weight of nights spent wondering if anyone notices your absence. Loneliness is a strange kind of pain. It doesn’t leave visible scars, but it lingers in the spaces between breaths, in the silence of an empty room, in the echo of a message left unanswered. But hear me when I say that, you are not invisible. There are people waiting to meet you, waiting to hear you laugh, waiting to be a shoulder for you to cry on. There are so many people waiting to love you wholeheartedly, with every fibre of their being. They will see you in the way you've longed to be seen. I know it's hard. I know that the loneliness is debilitating. The loneliness makes you wonder if you'll ever truly belong. But I assure you, you do belong. You don't have to prove your worth to anyone - you are ready to be loved, just as you are. If you're ever feeling lonely, don't retreat. Show the world who you are, little by little. Say yes to small invitations, even if they scare you. Be kind to strangers, and let them be kind to you. Fill your days with things that remind you you’re alive, like music, art, and walks under the open sky. And if the weight of loneliness becomes too much, reach out. Someone is waiting to hear from you. If the loneliness whispers that you are alone, remember that I am thinking of you as I write this. And if I can care about you from a distance, imagine how much love is waiting for you nearby, just waiting for the chance to reach you. You are not alone, even when it feels like you are. You are loved, even when love feels distant. You matter, even when the world feels too quiet. With love, Sach x

Hi there... I'm trying to write but I feel a mental paralysis creeping through my bloodstream. I'm just sat here staring at the screen. This topic is deeply close to my heart, and I almost lost myself to this feeling. But here I am, at age 23, sitting in my room at 10:34 pm on Tuesday 11th February 2025, writing this to you. Before I preach about why you should keep fighting, I'm going to virtually hold your hand, and say "I see you". I see your excruciating pain. I see your grief, and the heartache lingering in your chest. I see your tears, and your numbness. I see that you are haunted by ghosts. I see the exhaustion of battling your mind is crippling. I see how tired you are of fighting every damn day. I see your scars, and I see the shattered fragments of your soul. Breathe. I see you. You are not alone. I'm right here with you. I know the darkness feels almost majestical in in all its glory. It feels like a warm blanket protecting you from strangers in the night. The darkness has become your friend. You're on the precipice of leaving this universe all together. You're standing at the edge of the abyss, waiting for the wind to whisper in your ear that your time has come. But I'm here to say, you are not meant to vanish... You, dear reader, are special. You carry the strength of a thousand lifetimes within you. And you carry just as much pain, I know. But you have the ferocity and grit to be worthy of existence in this universe. I know earlier I said I see you, that I see your pain. However, I also see the radiance within your soul. I see the multifaceticity that roars within you. Your resilience echoes through every life you touch. You are not a summation of your heartache and loss. You are defined by your undeniable essence, that consists of inner power. I hope you know how damn brave you are. You are still here, fighting the good fight. And why is that? Because you are here for a reason. You were put on this earth for a reason. You have purpose. You may not know what your purpose is, but how will you ever find out if you leave this world? Keep going. Keep fighting. Keep pushing through. I know you can't see the light just yet, but I assure you, the sun will shine down on you soon. Be patient. Be kind to yourself. Hold yourself with grace. You are doing so well. I am so proud of you. Look how far you have already come. And look how far you can go... There are oceans waiting for you to swim in them. There are trees waiting for you to climb them. There are new sights for you to see. There are animals for you to meet. There are flowers for you to smell. There are sunsets, and ice cream, and long walks on the beach. There's new music waiting to be danced to. There are rainy days, and the scorching sun. There's love and there's laughter. There are rainbows waiting for you to find the pot of gold at the end of them. There's paintings waiting to be painted, and books waiting to be read. There are dreams waiting to be fulfilled. There are people eager with anticipation, just waiting to meet you. Yes, you. The world is so much brighter with you in it. And the endless azure of the blue skies do not need you to make them beautiful. The skies are stunning enough without you joining them. But this earth needs YOU to make it a better place. You are needed. You are loved. I hope one day, you look back, and joy fills your heart because you kept fighting. I hope, actually, I KNOW that you will never regret fighting. I know you will be so proud of yourself, just like I am proud of you. I know the future holds an infinity of extraordinary possibilities for you. Your story is not over. I repeat, your story is not over. Your story is not over. With all my love, Sach x

I want to start by saying that living with bipolar disorder is not the end. It's full of ups, downs, and plateaus, and it's definitely got challenges, but it's also a journey of self-discovery and growth. For me, it's been a rollercoaster whirlwind of emotions, from the dizzying highs of mania, to the crushing depths of depression... WHAT BIPOLAR SYMPTOMS FEEL LIKE Imagine waking up one day, feeling absolutely invincible, and feeling like you can conquer the world. You're talking really fast, you have an endless hurricane of ideas, you are so energetic that no one can keep up with you, and you disconnect from reality. You believe you are the chosen one, and that the universe is sending you signals. A frenzy of existential thoughts and endless epiphanies encapsulate you. You are not yourself, yet funnily enough, you feel more like yourself than ever before. You feel like this version of you is supreme and omnipotent. Sleep eludes you, and yet you are so full of energy and impulsivity. It's like you're on the world's best drug and nothing can stop you now. But imagine waking up months later. The high has worn off and you're experiencing the world's worst comedown. Depression envelopes you and you're shrouded in thoughts of worthlessness, hatred, and suicide. You're embarrassed and ashamed at your mania-induced actions. Exhaustion cripples you, and you're so extremely miserable. Your bed becomes your only comfort. The thought of leaving the house and getting on with your life fills you to the brim with anxiety. The darkness overtakes you, with no light to be seen. Even when you're okay, you're constantly wondering if your sleepless night or your slightly elevated mood is a precursor to a manic episode. You're worried that feeling extra tired or sad one night is the beginning of a depressive period. You're constantly living on edge, wondering what the next day will bring. That's the reality of living with bipolar. Sanity and peace seems like a distant memory, and the episodes feel never-ending. But the truth is, equilibrium exists. You can find stability. You can live a normal life. You can be yourself again. You can achieve your goals. THE IMPORTANCE OF DIAGNOSIS AND TREATMENT Getting a bipolar diagnosis was a pivotal moment in my journey. It provided me with clarity for those years of uncertainty wondering 'why am I like this?'. It made me understand myself more and validated me for all the highs and lows in my life. Getting a diagnosis is not the end, but rather the beginning. It's the start of a new exploration into a deeper understanding of yourself. Getting treatment for bipolar is crucial in reaching balance, stability, and serenity. Finding the right medication for you takes time, and it is a tough journey of mood changes and side effects. But once you find the perfect concoction for you, it's a game-changer. You feel like you can come up for oxygen after years of drowning. Additionally, therapy can be a great way to identify triggers and develop coping mechanisms. Last but not least, having a routine and maintaining a good sleep schedule are so important in sustaining mental and physical equilibrium. Don't get me wrong, I am not the epitome of perfect mental/physical health. I still have bad days, and I struggle to stick to a routine. I have also gained double my weight due to my antipsychotic medication, and that definitely takes a toll on my mental wellbeing and self-worth. I have difficulties with motivation and find myself in bed more than I should be. I struggle with being kind to myself and often berate myself for every mistake I make. I find it difficult to maintain motivation after being mentally unwell for over a decade. But overall, I'm stable and content, and that in itself is powerful. LESSONS I'VE LEARNT DURING MY BIPOLAR JOURNEY Self-awareness is key. Understanding your triggers and early signs of mania or depression can help you mitigate the effects of an episode. Be proactive in taking steps to prevent or minimise a manic/depressive episode. It's okay to get help. You may feel weak or powerless for asking for help. But I can assure you, it is such a blessing to be in a position to ask for help. It makes you stronger to ask for help, because you maintain courage even in your most vulnerable times. Celebrate small wins and practice gratitude always. Be grateful for the stability you have, because you're the one that got you there. Be proud of your strength and celebrate your achievements, no matter how big or small. Be kind to yourself. I know how easy it is to hate yourself and criticise your every move. But choose the harder option - choose kindness. Exercise self-compassion, and I promise you, it'll make a difference. BREAKING THE STIGMA One of the hardest challenges through my bipolar journey was the massive amount of stigma I experienced from the people around me. I was called crazy, prank called during my time in the psych ward, and had old friends remove me from their lives. I was often met with discomfort, awkwardness, or even disgust from people who had once loved me. People judged me for being so open about my struggles and they would rather remove themselves from my life than engage in an open conversation. My goal with Serenity is to help break the stigma surrounding mental illnesses, and to show that real people endure these conditions. Real people are suffering, and real people are being hurt by the stigma. Mental health is just as important as physical health. We wouldn't judge someone for breaking their leg or for having diabetes. But we judge someone for having bipolar or schizophrenia. Let's change that, together! A MESSAGE TO OTHERS LIVING WITH BIPOLAR Understand that growth is not linear - life is not straightforward. It's going to be a long and hard journey, but you have the inner strength to endure this. You are stronger than you realise. You have the inner ferocity to tackle any trials and tribulations life throws your way. You are not defined by your bipolar diagnosis. You are not a sum of your mania or depression. You are greater than your ups and downs. You are a multifaceted being with so much to offer to the world. You are incredible and uniquely wonderful. I hope you know how courageous and fierce you are. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Living with bipolar is difficult, but it's possible. It takes adjustments, but once you find what works for you, your soul can finally rest. - In essence, Serenity aims to raise awareness of living with bipolar and other mental illnesses. It strives to challenge mental health stigma and showcase the realities of living with a mental health disorder. Let's continue the conversation about mental health and support one another on this journey. Together, we can create a safe space where everyone feels seen and heard. Sach x

Hey Sach. I hope you're doing well. I know you are. I remember that time quite fondly. I'm writing this to say that you made it to your 23rd birthday. Happy birthday! I'm so immensely proud of you. You have overcome so much in life. I'm not going to lie, life gets tough for a while. It'll get so dark and painful at times but I promise you, there is light at the end of the tunnel. I know you'll want to give up so badly. I know the pain is immeasurable. You'll feel weak. You'll feel worthless. You'll hate yourself at times. But I promise you, you are not weak or worthless. Keep fighting. Keep proving to the world that you are a warrior. You have so much power, light, and strength inside of you. Don't ever let anything tell you otherwise. Here's some advice for you. Be brave. I remember you being so brave at 12 when you first told mum that you were struggling. But keep asking for help when you need it. It doesn't make you weak to ask for help. Don't push your loved ones away, even though I know it's the easy option. Let them in. Tell them when you're struggling and need support. Be patient. I know it feels like the suffering is never-ending, and to be honest, you will be hurting for a long time. But the pain eases over time. You'll still have bad days sometimes, but the good days outweigh the bad. Time is one of the greatest healers. Be grateful. I know that things are so difficult sometimes, and you'll even consider taking your own life. But you have so much to be grateful for. Firstly, your mum is an angel, so always appreciate her. Secondly, you have friends and family who love you so much - never take them for granted. Thirdly, you have a home, food, money, and clothes. There are so many people across the world who could only dream of having what you have. Always practice gratitude. Be kind to yourself. Over the years, you will be so cruel to your mind and body. Don't punish yourself for things outside your control. I know your mental health will take a toll on you, in every way, but your mind, body, and soul has gotten you through all adversities, so appreciate your determination. You're stuck with yourself for the rest of your life, so you should love yourself. I'm still working on that, but we will get there. I just wanted to say that I am so proud of you. You are a unique, kind-hearted, intelligent, courageous individual. Don't ever think otherwise. Don't ever lose those qualities, and always be unapologetically yourself. I hope you know how loved you are, how special you are, and how lucky you are. You may go through a lot of hardships but you will come out the other side even stronger. You got this! Sach x