The last memory I have of that time is blurry, like a dream fading as you wake up. Before deciding to step back, I felt fear, but also hope. It seemed like the only way to escape the despair that had taken over. I was stuck in a cycle of pain, too tired to keep going. I figured getting help and leaning on new tools might give me a break.

I prepared myself with the sense that slowing down could help my mind find calm. Each day, part of me tried to rebuild — drawing on what I’d learned, on books, therapy, whatever showed up. Little by little, I realized there wasn’t a clear line between my fragility and my ability to think things through: both were part of me.

When I finally looked around again, the world was still there — changed, but open. I’d changed too. That pause wasn’t an ending; it was a bridge between who I’d been and what I was starting to create.

Coming back was jarring. Stepping outside after so much time inside felt strange and discouraging. The world didn’t match the picture I’d built in my head. I found a country weighed down by inflation and inequality, with neighborhoods where half-ruined buildings stood next to neon signs clinging to better days.

People were trying to get by in the middle of uncertainty. Cryptocurrency, which once seemed like an alternative, showed the same confusion: prices jumping without reason, people caught between speculation and need. What started as a promise of fairness had become, for many, a maze.

I saw tired faces, people working hard to move forward in a rough landscape. Poverty wasn’t just in the streets; it was in their eyes, in a lack of trust in any kind of future. Technology, which had once promised relief, sometimes just widened the gap.

I thought about how I could add balance, even in small ways. The mess and inequality were huge, but that didn’t erase the chance to act. Maybe what I’d learned could help find fairer ways to use resources or guide others through the noise.

The future wasn’t a sure thing, but it wasn’t closed either. My path, uncertain as it was, had only begun.

My task now is simple: to live with what I’ve learned, using knowledge as a bridge between reflection and everyday reality. To combine thinking and doing, the practical and the emotional.

After going through depression and hopelessness, I realized that collecting tools isn’t enough — you have to use them to rebuild, to carve out possibilities. Learning isn’t just a method; it’s a way to widen your view and reclaim autonomy.