Dear Blog Readers,
This piece comes from Jessica, a student at MSU, who has generously shared a personal reflection on what summer feels like when you’re in recovery. Not the easy kind of summer that people romanticize – ice cream cones, tank tops, windows down – but the kind that presses in, makes the air feel heavy, and leaves you deciding between physical comfort and emotional safety. For those navigating recovery, summer can be exposing in more ways than one. Jessica captures that tension without dramatics or solutions. Just honesty.
Her words are not meant to inspire. They are meant to be heard. There is something powerful in a story that doesn’t reach for resolution, something quietly brave in simply describing the way things are. We don’t often talk about what it feels like to be seen when we’re not ready—or to hide when it’s too hot to keep hiding. Jessica’s piece offers no promises, no tidy affirmations. Only the question that lingers when recovery meets a heatwave.
Be kind to yourself and remember to nourish your body, mind, and that place inside you that makes you who you are.
Your blog moderator,
Kira
Still Hiding
Every summer, it creeps back in—the heat, the noise, the stares. I try to keep my body covered, even when it’s sweltering, even when the air feels thick and mean. In Toronto, when the temperature spikes past 30 degrees, the sidewalks shimmer and the subways become ovens. I sweat through layers I can’t bear to take off. I pretend it’s a fashion choice, or that I’m just always cold in the A/C, but it’s a lie so thin I can see right through it.
I watch people walk by in shorts and tank tops like it’s nothing. Like they don’t feel like their skin is on display. I want to be one of them, to wear less without thinking twice, but I still feel like everyone is looking. My closet is full of loose layers and oversized pieces that stick to me when I sit down. I fidget, tugging at sleeves, pulling shirts forward so they don’t cling. There’s no comfort in it—just a kind of safety I’ve convinced myself is necessary. But safety and comfort aren’t the same, are they?
Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to step outside in something light and not carry the weight of constant awareness. Not brace myself every time I pass a reflective surface. I wonder if I’ll ever stop choosing suffering over exposure, if this is something that will pass with time, or if I’ll still be doing this next summer. Is it really recovery if I’m still hiding?