It was late evening. The warm light from his lamp was soft on the walls of Yahya’s room. His journal was open on his lap. The panic attacks had not vanished completely. They were still a threat. But something else was finally gone. His deep sense of helplessness was gone. He had found his own quiet resilience.
He was done running away from the fear. He was done begging his family for validation. He was done waiting for people to see what they actively refused to acknowledge. He only needed his own truth now.
From the hallway, he heard the familiar, empty remarks:
“Looks like you’re fine now.” His sister’s voice was casual.
“No more of that panic drama, huh?” His cousin’s voice was dismissive.
He smiled gently. He did not get angry. He said nothing back. Their words were just noise now.
They did not know about the quiet, late-night storms he still faced. They did not know fear still crept into his room when the house fell silent. They did not know about the grounding exercises he practiced in the dark. He whispered numbers. He focused on his breath. He practiced until calm returned. They did not know the quiet, heavy strength it took just to exist on certain mornings.
But Yahya had learned something vital. He did not need everyone else to understand his journey. He only needed to deeply understand himself.
He flipped to a clean page in his journal. The pen felt steady in his hand. He wrote his new rules, his foundational truths:
️ I am not weak for feeling. My feelings are real.
️ Healing is not a straight line. Setbacks are part of the path.
️ One day, they might understand. Until then, I will breathe. I will continue.
He looked at his phone screen. MindCovez.com was still open. It was waiting like a quiet, faithful friend. He officially bookmarked the site. He closed the journal, placing it carefully on his nightstand. He let out a long, slow breath.
For the first time in a very long time, Yahya felt safe inside his own skin. He was his own protector.
Rebuilding, Not Broken
The next morning was ordinary. Sunrise painted the window. He heard the birdsong outside. He smelled the steam from the whistle of the kettle.
But Yahya woke with something fierce in his chest. It was not panic. It was a strong sense of purpose.
He picked up his phone. He did not hesitate. He did not second-guess himself. He dialed the number for the mental health clinic he found online.
“Hello, this is City Wellness. How can we help you?” The voice was calm and professional.
“I’d like to schedule an appointment,” he said. His mouth felt dry, but his voice was firm.
There was a short pause as she typed. Then, his voice came out clear and strong, without a single tremor:
“…with a therapist.”
No whisper of doubt. No fear of judgment. The call was over quickly. The appointment was set.
When he hung up, he did not hide the confirmation message. He left the phone face-up on the kitchen table. He was done with secrets.
His cousin walked in for a quick breakfast. He glanced at the phone screen. His eyebrow shot up in genuine surprise.
“Wait—you’re actually going to a shrink? Are you serious?”
Yahya met his cousin’s gaze. He was perfectly calm and absolutely sure.
“No,”
Yahya replied. “I’m going to a professional. They understand the mind. It is exactly like how a cardiologist understands the heart.”
His cousin frowned deeply. The disapproval was heavy.
“You know people talk, right? This will cause gossip.”
Yahya smiled easily. It was a genuine smile. “Let them talk. I am focused on my health.”
The Walk Toward Healing
Later that week, the day arrived. Yahya dressed carefully. He left the house alone. He stepped into the clinic lobby.
His head was up. His shoulders were relaxed. His breathing was steady, a slow box pattern.
The air inside the waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant. It was sterile, yet comforting. A woman in the waiting room looked at him curiously, trying to figure out his story.
He didn’t look away from her gaze. He held the moment.
Because this moment was not about shame. This was about profound strength.
This was about survival.
This was him saying, without a single word: I’m done apologizing for choosing to heal.
That night, under the quiet light of his desk lamp, Yahya opened his journal again. He felt peace finally settle in his bones. He wrote a final, powerful entry for the chapter:
The world says therapy is only for ‘mental’ people.
️ They are right. We all have minds.
️ And mine matters. I am taking care of it.