Breathing Again: A Journey Back to Life

Last spring, I found myself sitting on a park bench in Osu, the late afternoon sun warm on my face, watching kids chase a football across the grass. I’d been in a fog for months—work stress, a breakup, the kind of heaviness that makes even getting out of bed feel like climbing a mountain. But that day, something shifted. A kid’s laugh, the breeze, the simple joy of being there—it woke me up. Ever have a moment where the world suddenly feels alive again, like you’re remembering how to breathe?

There’s this quiet spark, a mix of relief and wonder, when you start coming back to life after feeling lost. For me, it wasn’t one big moment—it was small ones, stitching themselves together. I think about my friend Ama, who hit rock bottom after losing her job last year. She’d spend days in her room, curtains drawn, until she started gardening. “Just planting seeds,” she told me over coffee, her eyes bright for the first time in months. “Watching something grow—it made me feel like I could too.” That’s it, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s the tiniest things that pull you back.

I remember my cousin Kofi, who found his way out of a dark patch by picking up his old guitar. He’d stopped playing for years, said it felt pointless, but one night he strummed a few chords, and it was like a dam broke. He’s no rockstar, but now he plays at small gigs in Accra, his smile wider than I’ve seen in ages. It’s funny how life works—music, a garden, a moment in a park. They’re not cures, but they’re lifelines. I saw a post on X once, someone sharing how baking bread helped them through grief. “Kneading dough felt like hope,” they wrote. I get that.

But let’s be real—it’s not all rosy. Coming back to life is messy, uneven. Some days, I’d feel on top of the world, then crash, doubting if I’d ever feel “normal” again. My neighbor, an older woman who’s seen her share of hard times, caught me looking glum one morning. “Healing’s not a straight line,” she said, handing me a slice of her homemade mango cake. “It’s a dance, back and forth.” She’s right, you know? You take a step forward, stumble, try again. For me, it was writing—scribbling thoughts in a journal, nothing fancy, just honest. It helped me make sense of the fog, piece by piece.

I keep thinking about that park bench, those kids, the way the world felt vivid again. It wasn’t a lightning bolt, just a moment that reminded me I’m still here, still capable of joy. Ama’s flowers are blooming now, Kofi’s strumming his tunes, and I’m finding my own rhythm—walks, words, little victories. It’s like waking up after a long sleep, blinking into the light. Ever notice how the smallest things—a laugh, a song, a taste—can make you feel alive again?

So, here I am, still on this messy, beautiful path back to life. It’s not perfect, and I’m not either, but I’m learning to lean into the moments that spark joy, that make my heart beat a little louder. I wonder, though—what’s brought you back when you’ve felt lost? Is there a song, a place, a person that reminds you how to breathe again?