In the beginning, the path to healing felt uncertain, almost like stepping into a fog. I remember those early days when I first started working with my healer—my therapist—calling out for desperate relief from the heaviness that had settled into my life. I was 5 months pregnant with my second son at the time I reached out to her. I had put all my eggs in one basket, so to speak. I came across her website, her picture, and the name of her practice. I had no idea what I was looking for, but something about her drew me in. My gut told me she was the one.
I sent her a desperate email along the lines of: "Hi, my name is B, and I am pregnant with a toddler at home. I am experiencing some really hard thoughts, and I need help."
That was a huge step for me—one I didn't fully understand at the time. My heart was so heavy, my mind clouded with doubts and fears, just in admitting this. But she was a therapist, and this was what she did. Yet, the idea of getting through pregnancy with these intrusive thoughts felt distant, almost unreachable.
I met my therapist just before the world shut down due to COVID. We had a handful of in-person sessions before everything changed. My husband drove me to that first appointment; the fear and panic made it almost impossible for me to drive. I had never experienced anything like this before. We pulled up to an older home with a pale yellow door and creaky stairs that led up to her floor. The house felt familiar somehow, a comforting place that reminded me of something I couldn't quite name. I sat in the waiting room, my heart pounding, feeling both excited and terrified. I hoped beyond hope that this meeting would bring the help I so desperately needed.
I took the first step, and then another. My intrusive thoughts were so severe that I could not drive, go anywhere near water, or even function at work. They were becoming my reality, and I felt like I was losing my grip on sanity. I was terrified to tell anyone, not even my husband. I was afraid to tell my therapist, too, thinking she would send me to the hospital or, worse, take my kids away from me because of these thoughts.
I sat down on the black couch in her office. My healer sat across from me. My eyes stayed fixed on my hands the entire time; I don’t think I made eye contact with her very much. I told her everything I was thinking, and with every word, I felt the weight slowly lifting. She made me feel safe, understood, and validated. She didn’t get angry. She didn’t look at me with judgment or fear. She assured me that I wasn’t going to the hospital, that my kids were not going to be taken away. That they were just thoughts and that she can help me.
This is where our work began. From that day on, every day—even now—has been a decision to keep moving forward, even when it feels like I'm wading through quicksand. Looking back on that day, our first meeting, it feels both a lifetime away and like it was just yesterday. The person who walked into that room is so different from the one sitting here, typing this today. But that moment is a part of me, woven into the fabric of my journey.
As I continue to share more of this journey, I hope it brings a sense of connection to those who might be feeling alone in their struggles. This is why I created the Calming Triggers app. It's one of those tools that became an anchor for me in times of crisis—a reminder that I'm not alone and that there are ways to find calm amid the storm. There are many resources out there, and while you may be searching for the best free apps for mental health, I wanted to offer something meaningful, something personal. Calming Triggers is more than just an app; it's a space where you can find comfort and tools to navigate your journey, just like I have been navigating mine.
And I hope, through these blog posts and through the app, that you find the support and reassurance you need. You don't have to walk this path alone.
In the beginning,
there was a whisper,
a trembling hand reaching
into the unknown.
And there she was,
with a pale yellow door,
a place where hope whispered
in the dark.
We started,
two souls in a room,
one broken,
one holding the light.
Eyes downcast,
hands trembling,
yet a voice broke through,
soft and sure.
"I am here," she said,
and the fog began to lift.
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