baby’s first relapse

on living with guilt, grace, and giving up to start again

Okay, more of a lapse, really. But relapse just rolls off the tongue a little easier, doesn’t it?

The past week has been one of the biggest milestones in my recovery. For the first time, possibly ever, I finally gave up my digital checking compulsion. I stopped trying to predict the future. Stopped trying to figure out what everyone was doing at that very moment. Stopped searching for proof my life was completely ruined. It was strangely easy, almost natural. Every time the urge came calling, I’d label the thought and redirect myself back to whatever I was already doing. Eventually, it stopped feeling like I was resisting something at all. But after two weeks of being the poster child for perfect OCD recovery, I cracked.

Normally, that would’ve been enough to ruin my whole week. I can recall so many nights spent sobbing into my pillow, convinced that I just wasn’t trying hard enough. Self-compassion just wasn’t on the menu at the time. Now that I understand more about how my brain works, I know it wasn’t something I was capable of back then.

I always held myself to a higher standard, convinced that was the only way I’d ever get better. I’d lived like that for as long as I could remember. The moment I fell short of my own expectations, I’d check out entirely. There was always another angle to inspect, another possibility I missed. The checking never made me feel better, though. It just made me feel responsible for finding a certainty that didn’t exist.

I’d have treated this as proof that I’d undone all my progress. That I’d somehow found my way back to square one. Instead, I decided to treat it like an exposure. What surprised me even more was how naturally that felt, too.

I think I even gave myself permission to slip. Not because I wanted to check, but because I wanted what came after. The guilt. The uncertainty. The horrible feeling that something was unresolved. I wanted to see if I could let it exist without immediately crucifying myself for a moment of weakness.

There’s a dangerous element to giving yourself that permission, though. I think I could’ve white-knuckled my way through it if I’d really wanted to. It wasn’t an overwhelming urge so much as a quiet whisper. The kind that tells you you’re only going to look for a second. Just enough to settle your stomach and give you a little hope that tomorrow will be a little easier.

Funnily enough, I really do think allowing myself that brief moment is what proves that I’m growing. Not because checking is suddenly healthy, but because it no longer carries the weight of my entire recovery. There was a time when one mistake would’ve opened me up to a world of shame that I would’ve lived in for weeks. I would’ve treated it like evidence that I’d never get better. That all the progress I’d made was just a lie I was telling myself.

This time, I didn’t spend the next six hours trying to undo it. I didn’t declare recovery dead on arrival. I just kept going. If I could travel back in time and say that to last year’s version of me, I’d probably give myself a conniption. I probably wouldn’t even believe I got myself to stop checking entirely.

It’s a strange feeling. Murkier than certainty, but lighter than panic. I can’t quite tell whether I checked because the compulsion won or because I chose not to make the checking itself the thing I was afraid of.

It almost felt like a rite of passage instead of the usual metaphorical staring contest with OCD. For so long, recovery felt like a game of who could hold their breath longer. Me refusing to check. OCD refusing to leave. Waiting to see who blinked first. This time, it didn’t feel like either of us won. It just... ended.

Maybe that’s the new milestone. Not the lapse. Not even resisting the urge. But realizing that recovery was never going to be measured by how perfectly I performed it. Maybe this, too, is a rite of passage. The inevitable moment where you stop asking whether you’ve failed and start asking whether you’re willing to begin again.

Recovery has always been messier than I imagined it to be. It still hurts, though. The compulsions may have quieted down, but the memories haven’t. Sometimes I’ll get hit with these visceral flashbacks of the little things I no longer have access to. I used to think having such a good memory was a blessing. Now it feels more like a curse.

It’s uncanny how I can remember exactly what it felt like to walk to the neighborhood grocery store by his place. The weight of my shopping tote digging into one shoulder, stuffed to the brim with the special green tea that promised to lower your cholesterol with every sip. Another little Easter egg I couldn’t yet recognize as OCD. I can almost feel the beads of sweat dripping down my face from spending all day in the Okinawan sun. I recall listening to Addison Rae on repeat while munching on my favorite mochi donuts after a thirty minute walk to get them.

It’s moments like these that catch me off guard. I don’t just remember what happened. I remember every feeling that came with it. It's strange grieving things that once felt completely ordinary. Those are the breadcrumbs OCD likes to use to trick me into checking just one last time.

But this time feels different. The familiar pull is still there but there’s also this feeling I can’t quite name. It’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Sad, but not catastrophic. It no longer feels like a necessity to my survival. I’m not trying to convince myself I’m okay, either. There’s just a quiet admission of sadness. But that’s all it is: a feeling, not a command. Even writing this doesn’t carry the same frantic need to reach a conclusion.

When I first imagined what moving on would feel like, I thought it would arrive all at once. I pictured some cinematic moment where I’d wake up and realize I’d stopped missing him. That I’d stopped caring. That I’d finally become the person I’d been trying so desperately to be. Maybe that’s what it’s like for others.

Instead, it happened like this. I checked. I felt guilty. And then I made breakfast. That would’ve sounded impossible a few months ago. I can stay jealous of how simple moving on is for others or I can acknowledge that some things will always be a little trickier with OCD—and it’s nothing I can’t handle.

It was only a few months ago that I was crying to my ex, begging him for reassurance that I could actually get better; wishing for the depression that came with a mental disorder to dissipate. Back then, I thought he was the only one who saw me at my rawest. I saw him as the only person who ever challenged me to be different. Now I can see something I couldn’t see then.

He was my best friend. Maybe even my soulmate. But he was also my safety person, and, ultimately, I have to choose between the familiar support I was so accustomed to or I can choose recovery. It’s sad and unfair but the truth is living with OCD is unfair—and that’s alright.

For so long, I thought recovery would look like never checking again. Never spiraling. Never feeling nervous or uncertain. I thought healing meant becoming someone who no longer had OCD. Maybe healing is something much less glamorous than that.

I’m sure that isn’t going to be the only time I slip. Making mistakes are just a part of life especially when OCD can be so loud and unceasing. The vivid memories I’d rather not remember might always stay with me, and I’m going to have to make space for that.

Recovery isn’t in erasing the past or all the bad habits that came with it; it’s in living in the present and making the right choice even after you’ve made the wrong one. Maybe that's all recovery ever was. Not never making the wrong choice, but refusing to let one wrong choice become your whole life again.

So the next time my OCD is loud, I'll probably check. I'll probably feel guilty. And then I'll make breakfast anyway.