A blog post by Pepetoe.

So you think you could kill me? That’s cute.

I saw this poem on the tube yesterday, with the ending line “come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and failed.” I don’t remember the poet, unfortunately, but the sentence stuck with me. Probably because it felt familiar.

Because today I ate when my brain told me not to. I rested when guilt tried to bully me into productivity. I didn’t fix my body, my past, or my future, but I stayed. And apparently, that was enough to ruin the plan.

When people talk about survival, they usually mean something… cinematic. Something violent. A single, dramatic moment where everything almost ends and then doesn’t. But what I mean is quieter than that. What I mean is waking up, again, with a mind that throws doubts even before breakfast, and a body I’ve spent years negotiating with, and choosing not to disappear anyway. And that quiet energy is way more powerful than a dramatic moment.

There’s nothing glamorous about it. No swelling music. No “strong girl” montage set to an upbeat track on Instagram. Just a series of small, almost laughable rebellions against the things that once convinced me I’d be safer smaller, quieter, more controlled.

If you’ve followed me for a while on my socials in particular, you might’ve noticed I’m done with the idea of being a “healed girl.” I used to post those polished recovery montages “this is what recovery gave me, recovery is the best thing I ever did“, while still struggling behind the scenes. Still bargaining with my brain. Still surviving, not thriving in recovery. And the truth is, none of that shiny narrative felt honest anymore.

So, I’m stepping away from the aesthetic version of survival and turning it into something real. Because survival isn’t pretty. It’s quiet. It’s repetitive. It’s an everyday negotiation with whatever it is you’re carrying, whether that’s self-doubt, guilt, intrusive thoughts, body image, or the ghosts of old versions of yourself pulling you backwards.

So yes. Something tried to kill me today. And somehow, very annoyingly for it, I’m still here.

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Something Tried to Kill Me (And It Wasn’t Dramatic)

When I say “something tried to kill me,” I don’t mean anything loud or cinematic. There were no flashing lights, no emergency moments that neatly divided my life into before and after. What tried to kill me was quieter than that. So quiet, in fact, that for a long time I didn’t even recognise it as a threat.

It was self-doubt that arrived before breakfast. Guilt that made rest feel like a moral failure. Intrusive thoughts that disguised themselves as logic. Secrets and lies that kept me a hostage to myself and my own thoughts. A voice that told me I’d be safer if I were smaller, more controlled, less visible. None of this looked dangerous from the outside. I was functioning. I was smiling. I was doing all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re “fine.”

But those thoughts chipped away slowly. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. They just waited for moments of tiredness, vulnerability, loneliness, and then suggested that disappearing might be easier than staying.

That’s the kind of thing that tries to kill you without anyone noticing.

The Small Wins No One Claps For

No one claps when you eat a meal you didn’t want to eat. No one hands you a medal for sitting down when guilt tells you to keep going. There’s no audience for choosing softness when your brain insists that control is the only way to be okay.

Those are the moments that matter most. Some days, survival looks like making toast and eating it even though every thought in your head is arguing against it. Some days, it looks like cancelling plans without justifying yourself. Some days, it’s closing an app before comparison digs its claws in too deep. Some days, it’s doing nothing, and not punishing yourself for it.

These choices are small. Repetitive. Unimpressive. And yet, they’re the reason I’m still here. Survival isn’t built on grand gestures. It’s built on tiny decisions that feel insignificant until you realise how hard they are to make.

The Banality of Survival

Most days, nothing dramatic happens, and that used to make me feel like I was failing at recovery, at healing, at life. I kept waiting for the moment where everything would click, where surviving would feel rewarding or meaningful or at least obvious.

Instead, I got repetition. Wake up. Argue with my brain. Do the thing anyway. Go to bed. Repeat. That’s it.

Survival, it turns out, is painfully ordinary. It’s boring. It’s unremarkable. It doesn’t come with clarity or closure. And for a long time, I thought that meant it didn’t count.

But maybe the banality is the point. Maybe staying alive isn’t meant to feel profound every day. Maybe it’s meant to feel neutral, flat, almost forgettable, because the real work is in the choosing, not the feeling.

You don’t survive once. You survive again and again and again.

A Toast to Endurance, Not Trauma

I don’t want to celebrate what hurt me. I don’t want to search my worst moments for meaning or pretend I’m grateful for the things that nearly took me out. That’s never sat right with me.

What I do want to celebrate is endurance. The stubborn, unglamorous decision to keep going. The kind of strength that doesn’t look brave. It just looks persistent. The kind that doesn’t announce itself or turn into a lesson for other people.

I don’t owe my pain a redemption arc. I don’t owe anyone a silver lining. And I don’t have to romanticise suffering to justify being proud of myself.

This is a toast to staying. To continuing. To choosing life even when it feels heavy, dull, or inconvenient.

Letting Go of the Old Versions of Me

There are old versions of me who genuinely believed they were saving my life.

The version who thought control meant safety. The one who believed worth had to be earned through discipline and restriction (on both food, work, social life – all of it). The one who didn’t think she’d make it this far, so she clung tightly to whatever felt predictable.

I don’t hate those versions. I understand them. They did the best they could with what they had. But letting them keep control would mean staying stuck in a way that feels familiar but deadly.

Letting go of old identities isn’t dramatic, it’s uncomfortable. It’s choosing uncertainty over rules. It’s releasing coping mechanisms that once worked but now cause harm. It’s realising that survival can’t look the same forever.

I can thank who I was without letting her decide who I become.

Why I’m Done Being a “Healed Girl”

For a long time, I played the part. I posted the montages. The smiling moments. The captions about how recovery “gave me everything back.” And the truth is, when I posted a lot of that, I was still struggling. I was surviving — not healed.

But the internet doesn’t like that version. It likes neat endings. It likes transformation arcs. It likes women who look peaceful enough to reassure everyone else. I don’t want to perform recovery anymore, or anything for that matter. I don’t want to package survival into something palatable. I don’t want to pretend that healing is linear or aesthetic or finished.

I want to be honest. Even when honesty is awkward. Even when it’s messy. Even when it doesn’t inspire anyone.

Sometimes survival doesn’t come with joy. Sometimes it doesn’t come with gratitude or hope or a clear sense of where you’re heading next. Sometimes it’s choosing to live without knowing whether things will feel better, and just trusting that staying is still worth it.

That counts.

You’re allowed to survive without being inspirational. You’re allowed to stay without feeling strong. You’re allowed to choose life even when it feels neutral, flat, or exhausting. Survival doesn’t need to be beautiful to be valid.

So Yes, I’m Still Here

So yes. Something tried to kill me today. And everyday. Self-doubt. Guilt. Old patterns. Fear of the future. Fear of the past.

And it failed.

Not because I conquered it. Not because I’m healed. But because I stayed. If you’re still here too, even quietly, even imperfectly, this counts. Celebrate this with me. Not the pain. Not the trauma. Just the fact that we didn’t disappear.

Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Xo Pepetoe