My therapist’s office was as welcoming as usual this afternoon, filled with its bright pops of teal amidst a serene white contrast. I always feel safe there; able to say things I wouldn’t share elsewhere.

“Happy Stay Day, Amanda,” my therapist said when she greeted me. I smiled to myself as I thanked her. She remembered. She acknowledged it. She worded it in the way I do. All signs of someone more than worth spending an hour every week with.

I call this day “Stay Day” because it’s more concise and positive than calling it “The Day I Was Suicidal and Drove Myself to the Hospital At the Last Minute to Get Help.”

May 16th, 2020, was nearly my last day alive. I wish that were hyperbole, but it isn’t. Some criticism of my work on social media quickly turned into a heap of personal attacks, mockery, defamation, hate mail, and people telling me I should end my life. It was ugly, unproductive, and absolutely vile. Nobody should be on the receiving end of that, and I now know firsthand how disastrous it can be to someone who is already struggling inside.

It was a week of hell piled on top of so much more going on in my world. I carried that emotional weight until I broke beneath it. I had what can only be described as a breakdown. The part of me that finds hope in situations shut off completely. The rest of me was overrun with pain and hopelessness until I went numb and, finally, dark.

My wife nearly became a widow. My children nearly lost a parent. My parents nearly buried a child.

My therapist and I have gone over that day several times, and I still don’t know what, exactly, made me walk out the door at the last minute to get help. That wasn’t the plan. The plan had been made in my head already, and it had a far worse ending.

For that reason I can’t explain, I’m alive today. I now have a diagnosis of complex trauma, or CPTSD, as a result of that trip to the hospital. I take medication and I see a therapist. I do several things every day, from mindfulness to meditation to exercise to nutrition, to manage a brain that has been shaped by both childhood trauma and the events of May 2020.

But I am still here.

And not only am I still here, but I’m in a far better place than I was before this all happened. It has been, in its own way, a beautiful gift. I had to walk through fire to receive it, but it’s mine now. I get to keep it. Because of the work I’ve done since then, I’m far stronger, more confident, and more resilient than I’ve ever been. I’ve learned to balance empathy with boundaries, and kindness with assertiveness.

Today, I’m fairly sure that a situation like I faced two years ago would not result in a personal crisis. Nobody has that kind of power over me anymore.

But despite all the work I’ve done, this week has still been hard. I still carry trauma, and with that comes the pain of dealing with anniversaries like this one. All week, triggers ranging from the weather to specific words or phrases have reminded me of what happened. I recall the things that were said, the things that were done, the fear and worthlessness I felt, and the day when everything went dark. By yesterday, I could almost feel the pain in my bones.

This is why I planned a day to myself. I took today off. I didn’t know how I was going to feel, but I knew I wanted to give myself space to feel it.

So, how did I spend Stay Day? Healing old wounds and celebrating new joys.

The first thing I did this morning—after a good, cleansing cry—was exercise. Working out reminds me I have control over my body. And, given how out of control I felt on this day two years ago, this is empowering.

Next, I wrote a thank-you note and stuffed it with gift cards. Then, I dropped it off at the hospital I visited on that faithful day, and left it with the triage nurses. I know not everyone has a good experience in emergency rooms. Staff can sometimes be dismissive, especially during a mental health crisis. But I lucked that day and received extremely good care. That care saved my life.

After leaving the hospital, I ordered myself a fancy latte (“I need something special because it’s a special day!” I said to the barista) and made my way to therapy. My therapist and I talked about a lot of things, but my big takeaway was that I need to let go of any residual shame I still carry about how I responded to those online attacks. It’s time to forgive myself for not being able to handle it the way I likely would today. I was already vulnerable before this happened for other reasons. And when we’re vulnerable, everything is much harder to handle, including bullying and harassment.

Finally, I went to the store and picked up a few ingredients to make myself a cake. Because you know what? I deserve a damn cake. I wanted orange-flavoured with sprinkles, so that’s what I made.

So, tonight, I’m eating a late dinner, reluctantly sharing my cake with the family, and we’re going to watch a feelgood movie. I plan to inhale every joyful moment of this day. My day. I’m reclaiming it. Slowly, year by year, I will rewrite this story. It’s not the day I almost died. It’s the day I started fully living. Stay Day is the day I was reborn. It’s why I have a phoenix tattoo on my arm.

We don’t get to choose what happens to us, but we do sometimes get to choose what we do with it. I did something mighty, and I every year I’m going to remind myself of that. I also hope my story reminds someone else that there can be hope, even in the darkest times.

Happy Stay Day, me.