There is a cultural obsession with fast-tracked healing and effortless perfection. In the beauty space, we are often inundated with messages about flawless surfaces, instant glows, and pristine, polished aesthetics. But as we honor Mental Health Awareness Month this May, it is time to have a truer, deeper conversation about what beauty actually means. True beauty is not about a perfect exterior, nor is it about having perfectly calm, undisturbed thoughts. The truth is, your mind is a beautiful place, even in the darkness, even in the peril, and even when it feels completely broken down.

Grief and trauma do not care about a perfect aesthetic. Eight years ago, my world fractured when my brother was murdered. I did not know who I was without him. Two years later, still carrying that heavy, unresolved grief, I moved to Seattle. Then the pandemic hit. Locked down in a city that was still new to me, the walls closed in, and my mind became a horrible, dark place.

I spiraled, and the emotional breakdown quickly showed up on the outside. The pain manifested physically as I dropped to 108 pounds, to the point where X-ray technicians pointed out how starkly visible my ribs were. There were days I could not get out of bed. My relationships suffered, I lost friends, and I “crashed out” because I simply did not have the tools to cope. I was in therapy, but I was deeply frustrated by the lack of instant gratification. I was terrified of medication altering my brain chemistry. I could not see a light at the end of the tunnel, and I wanted to die.

But I had a Boxer dog, Bailey.

Because I could not bear the thought of my sudden absence impacting her life, I chose to stay. The only other person who loved and cared for her as much as I did, had passed on himself. 

She became my anchor. She gave me a reason to step outside, and it was in those forced moments that I found an unexpected solace in the elements. Seattle’s nature became my medicine. On those walks, I was forced to feel something. I felt the crisp air on my face, the rain on my skin, the snow, and the long, lingering summer sunshine. My dog was so patient with me. On days when all I could give her was a quick trip outside to go potty, she sat with me. On days we could make it to the park, she walked beside me.

Through her, and through the trees, and the elements, I learned a lesson that completely changed how I view wellness: I had to stop trying to control how fast I healed, and I had to stop punishing my mind for being in pain. I found joy in watching Bailey experience new elements for the first time, often waking up at 3am so that she could experience snowfall and animals like bunnies we don’t see often in Los Angeles. She was such a happy girl and I didn’t know it at the time but it kept me going. 

Living in Seattle taught me that nature does not rush, yet everything is accomplished in due time. My dog and the Seattle elements taught me to slow down and stop racing toward a destination I could not even see. I had to learn to exist in the beautiful unknown. I had to break entirely down so that I could build myself back up on a foundation of radical patience.

After three and a half years, something shifted. I realized I was finally feeling better. Seattle had done what it needed to do for my soul. It was time to move on, to leave certain things behind, including the apartment, the relationships that no longer served me, and the city itself.

Today, I live in Phoenix, but the tools I gathered in the Seattle rain stayed with me. To this day, when my mind begins to race, I go for a walk to slow things down. I have accepted that a hard day is just a hard day. Even when those hard days stretch into hard weeks or heavy months, I no longer panic. Even if I cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel right now, I know with absolute certainty that the light exists.

This past February, just five days after my 35th birthday, the sweet Boxer girl who saved my life crossed the rainbow bridge. To say that I am heartbroken would be summing it up entirely too lightly. But unlike years ago, I am in a much better position now, and I have the tools to handle the weight of this grief. I keep her memory fiercely alive. Her pictures are plastered everywhere, and I surround myself with people who love and support me, people who recognize the profound absence that is her presence. I honor her by keeping her ashes right next to her boy’s. She loved my brother, and I like to think that they are reunited now.

I still go to the park where we spent our very last day together, and I still find peace there. She will always be my baby girl. For 10 and a half years, she was one of the best, if not the absolute best, things that ever happened to me. She taught me how to survive so that I could be here today to remember her.

Now, I am preparing to make my way back to Los Angeles, California, where it all began for Bailey and me. As I get ready to move back and reintegrate into my hometown, I feel a profound shift. I am going back feeling much more prepared and far less triggered. I will always be deeply grateful for the love, the patience, and the invaluable lessons that my beautiful Bailey taught me. The journey through three years in Seattle and three years in Arizona has shaped me, and I am finally ready to step back into where my roots are, carrying her spirit with me.

Real beauty lives in our capacity to survive, to feel, and to reflect our truest selves. I consider myself a rose that grew from concrete. I had to split through the hardest, coldest rock just to reach the sun. My mind was not perfect during those dark years, but looking back, I see how beautiful it truly was for fighting so hard to keep me here.

This Mental Health Awareness Month, if you are currently in the dark, if you are frustrated that you are not “over it” yet, or if you are holding on by a thread, please keep going. Your mind is still a beautiful place, even in the middle of the storm. Let yourself break down if you must, but do not give up. Trust the process, step outside, feel the air on your face, and let your mind be the light that guides you through the beautiful unknown.

“Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared.” — Tupac Shakur