My Story — DPDR And The Darkest Year

It’s been a real challenge to even consider how I would put this story into words.

Many of my closest friends and family don’t know what the last year and a half of my life has truly been like. I told myself that once I healed, I would share it — in hopes that someone else might feel less alone if they ever found themselves in this place.

As we approach the end of 2025, I can finally say that I am emerging from the darkest and most frightening period of my life.

It started one night as I lay next to my partner, trying to fall asleep. A familiar feeling crept in — one I had known on and off for as long as I could remember. It usually happened at night, sometimes in brief flashes during the day. A sensation as if my identity were dissolving. As if the pieces of who I was suddenly didn’t fit together.

Growing up, I would sometimes wake up in this state — confused, panicked, unsure of who or where I was. I’d grasp for something familiar until my body finally settled and I could fall back asleep. Other times it would hit me during the day: a sudden, visceral awareness that life was… strange. Unreal. Like I had just arrived here and couldn’t understand how any of this existed.

It felt spiritual. Terrifying. Otherworldly.

I once tried to explain it to a friend at a festival. She laughed and said it sounded like being on mushrooms — something I never dared to try. I was convinced that if I ever touched psychedelics, I would lose my mind completely. Somewhere deep down, I believed something was already wrong with me.

That belief had been planted early. As a child, my emotions were intense — rage, sensitivity, overwhelm. Doctors, medications, and labels reinforced the idea that something about me was broken.

So I searched. I read. I studied spirituality, altered states, consciousness, meditation, shamanism — anything that might explain this strange inner experience. And for years, the feelings came and went. Uncomfortable, but manageable.

Until October.

That night, as I drifted toward sleep, the sensation returned — but this time, I fixated on it. And it took over.

I jolted out of bed in terror. My body was shaking. I was sweating. The house looked unfamiliar. My couch, my TV, my dog — everything felt foreign. I felt like I was floating in a dream I couldn’t wake up from. My heart raced. I purged. I paced.

I woke my partner, sobbing and trembling, convinced something had gone terribly wrong. He held me until I finally slept.

But this time, sleep didn’t fix it.

When I woke up, the world still felt unreal. I didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t recognize my home. Worst of all, I felt disconnected from my son — as if my mind couldn’t access the love I knew was there. That terrified me more than anything.

I was certain I was losing my mind.

Days passed. Then weeks. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t work. I was afraid of everything — light, sound, thoughts, existence itself. I felt trapped inside my own consciousness. I genuinely believed my life was over.

Eventually, shaking and terrified, I searched the internet.

That’s when I found it:
Depersonalization / Derealization (DPDR).

Thousands of people describing exactly what I was experiencing.

I was horrified… and relieved.

Then I found something else — people talking about recovery. About how DPDR isn’t dangerous. About how it’s a nervous system response, not a mental illness. About how it’s driven by anxiety and fear — and how it can resolve.

TikTok, of all places, saved me.

I learned that my brain was stuck in fight-or-flight. That depersonalization is a protective mechanism — a way the nervous system disconnects when it believes you’re in danger. Not a sign of psychosis. Not permanent damage. Not insanity.

I found Shawn O’Connor’s work. Then Robin, who became a lifeline for me. I watched videos on repeat. Learned how to stop fearing the symptoms. Learned how to stop monitoring my mind.

And slowly — painfully slowly — things began to shift.

What shocked me most was how little this condition is talked about. How many doctors don’t understand it. How often it’s misdiagnosed. How many people are told they’ll “just have to live with it.”

The truth is: DPDR feels terrifying, but it is not dangerous.

It’s a nervous system stuck in survival mode.

I had been anxious my entire life. High-functioning. Overachieving. Holding everything together. A single mom without support. A caretaker. A dreamer. A doer.

Eventually, my system hit its limit.

I had what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown.

There were nights I lost my vision from panic. Nights I hid under blankets waiting for it to pass. Moments I truly believed I was disappearing.

And yet… here I am.

What healed me wasn’t forcing the fear away.
It was learning to stop running from it.

I learned that anxiety must be allowed, not fought.
That fear dissolves when it’s met with softness.
That the nervous system heals through safety, not control.

And strangely — beautifully — everything I needed to heal was already within me. The breathwork. The mindfulness. The embodiment practices I’d been teaching for years.

It was as if my life had been quietly preparing me for this moment.

2025 held both my deepest fear and my greatest awakening.

I am no longer afraid of my mind.
I am no longer afraid of sensation.
I am no longer afraid of being here.

And for the first time in a long time…
I feel truly alive.

2026 will not be about survival.
It will be about living.