The Day My World Changed: Coping with PTSD
It’s been three years, but I remember every detail of that day like it just happened. I was sitting at home, scrolling through my phone, when the call came. I didn’t even know how much that one moment would change everything. “There’s been an accident,” they said. My dad was gone. Just like that.
He wasn’t just my dad—he was my best friend. He taught me how to laugh at myself, how to play soccer, and how to never give up, even when things got tough. And then, out of nowhere, he was taken away by someone who decided it was okay to drink and drive.
At first, I couldn’t even cry. I just felt...empty. But after the shock wore off, the panic attacks started. Anytime I heard a siren or even thought about getting into a car, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was like my brain was stuck on that day, replaying it over and over, no matter how hard I tried to forget.
The nightmares were the worst. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, my heart racing, and I’d hear his voice in my head or see the crash in my dreams. I started avoiding my friends, skipping events, and shutting everyone out because talking about it hurt too much.
Eventually, my mom convinced me to try therapy. At first, I hated it. Talking about what happened felt like ripping off a bandage, but my therapist helped me understand that what I was feeling wasn’t something I could just “get over.” It was PTSD, and it wasn’t my fault.
She taught me grounding techniques—ways to stay in the moment when my mind started spiraling. Simple things, like focusing on the feeling of a cold drink in my hand or counting objects around me. I also started journaling, which helped me put my thoughts somewhere other than my head.
I finally opened up to a few close friends about what was going on, and their support was a game-changer. They didn’t judge me or tell me to move on. They just listened, and honestly, that was all I needed.
It’s not like everything is magically better now. I still have bad days—days when the sadness feels like too much or when a random song makes me break down because it reminds me of him. But I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
If you’re dealing with PTSD or grief, please know you’re not alone. It’s messy, it’s painful, and it’s confusing, but it doesn’t mean you’re broken. Take your time, talk to someone, and let yourself feel what you need to feel.
I still miss my dad every day, but now, instead of focusing on how he died, I try to remember how he lived. And if my dad were here, I know exactly what he’d say: “Keep going. I’m proud of you.”
