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What IMH Taught Me About Love (No, Really)

If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be writing about my time at the Institute of Mental Health (IMH) with anything close to fondness, I would’ve laughed (then probably cried). Back then, walking into IMH felt like the greatest tragedy. Like I’d failed my family and myself. 

But here’s the plot twist: it wasn’t the end of my life, not by a long shot. It was the beginning of something strangely beautiful.

Don’t get me wrong—being a patient at IMH was tough. The walls weren’t always comforting. The nights were long. And the questions in my head? Endless. But in that raw, stripped-down space, something softened in me. I began to notice the little acts of kindness—the nurse who remembered my name, the doctor who really listened, the other patients who just got it without me having to explain.

I saw love there. Not the sappy, rom-com kind. But the fierce, quiet kind. The kind that shows up in crisis. The kind that shares a banana when you haven’t eaten all day. The kind that listens when you’re too tired to talk.

And over time, I started showing that kind of love to myself too.

I’ve been in and out of IMH more times than I can count. I used to be ashamed of that. Now? I own it. Because each time I went back, I learned something new about surviving, about healing, and about being human. That’s something no textbook can teach you.

Now, I use what I’ve learned to support others who are going through diagnoses, navigating stigma, or simply trying to make it to the next day. Not as an expert with a clipboard—but as someone who’s been there, sat on those *heavy chairs, cried in those rooms, and somehow made it out more whole.

If you’re reading this and struggling, just know: you’re not alone. There’s love—even in places that feel like rock bottom. And maybe, just maybe, rock bottom is where we find the foundations for something stronger.

*Fun fact: chairs are deliberately heavy so we can't fling them at others. It doesn't stop some from still trying, though. 😂

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