This one’s for the nights that tried to break me,

for the silence that felt louder than the crowd.

I made it through. I got out.

Midnight ceiling, heartbeat pacing like a drum,

felt like a stranger in my body, nowhere left to run.

Thoughts heavy, whisper telling me “give in,”

but another voice said “hold on — it’s not the end.”

Phone lit up, my hand shook pressing send,

a voice answered soft: “Talk, I’ll listen, friend.”

One sentence cut the dark, gave me space to breathe,

it wasn’t victory, but it planted a seed.

Little by little, I climbed through the storm,

every shaky step reshaped my form.

It wasn’t magic — just proof I’m alive,

one fragile night, and I survived.

I wrote my name on a wall, like a vow to myself,

promised I’d keep walking, keep guarding my health.

I got out — from the shadow of doubt, I got out.

From the voices in my head that told me to bow out.

Bruised hands, but I stand, and I shout: I got out.

One breath, one call, one step — I got out.

Found a spark in the dark, I got out.

Took the pieces of pain, turned them into art, I got out.

Therapy chairs, journal pages soaked with truth,

I faced the fear I carried since I was a youth.

Small wins stack — one day at a time,

like pennies in a jar till the weight turns kind.

I learned panic has language, pain has a name,

storms don’t last forever — rain’s part of the game.

Relapse came cold, tryna drag me down,

but I wore an extra sweater, kept my feet on the ground.

Friends on speed dial, playlists for the lows,

planted seeds in the dark — now a garden grows.

Scars don’t shame me, they testify instead,

that I walked through the fire and I’m living, not dead.

I found quiet moments, breathed between the fights,

learned that even small steps can carry big lights.

I got out — from the shadow of doubt, I got out.

From the whispers in my head that wanted me to bow out.

Hands scarred but steady, I stand and I shout: I got out.

One breath, one call, one step — I got out.

I let the sun hit my face, I got out.

Found my heartbeat in rhythm with grace, I got out.

I got out.

If you hear this at your breaking point,

this is the hand I wished for, the line I joined.

It’s messy, it’s painful, but it’s true:

somebody needs you here — and that somebody’s you.

Breathe slow, reach out, don’t face it alone,

you are more than the shadows, more than the unknown.

Now I sit with the younger me, say “it’s okay to break,

but don’t let the breaking decide what you make.”

The future felt far, but I reached anyway,

built a road from the rubble where the shadows lay.

No single miracle, just stubborn love,

proof in my lungs that I’m still enough.

The past calls loud, but I answer slow:

“I remember you, but I don’t have to go.”

I still carry rain, but I own the sky,

with an umbrella in my hand and fire in my eyes.

Every step forward is a shout into the void,

a reminder to the world I was never destroyed.

I got out — not by luck, but by fighting to stay, I got out.

Found a reason in the dark to make it through another day.

From the ashes, I built something strong, something proud,

one step, one call, one breath — I got out.

I got out — now my voice is my vow,

to breathe when it’s heavy and keep living somehow.

So if you’re listening close — know this route:

one step, one call, one breath — and you got out.

I got out — I’m still here, still breathing, still loud,

I got out — and I wear my scars like a crown.

I got out. I got out.

(And if I did, you can too.)

I got out.