Cinders to Strength: My Healing Story
Before I stepped into my work as a clinical hypnotherapist, I wrote openly about my own journey of healing from burnout, late-diagnosed ADHD, and rediscovering myself after years of living out of alignment.
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That writing became Cinders to Strength, a personal blog where I shared the raw, unfiltered seasons of my life: collapse, cocooning, transformation, and finally, emergence.
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I’ve gathered those posts here as an archive, not because they are polished or perfect, but because they are true. They represent the ashes I rose from, the lessons I carried forward, and the foundation of the work I do today.
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If you’re curious to walk through that journey with me, you’ll find the full series of posts below.​​​​​
These posts reflect my personal healing journey. They are not intended as professional advice, but as reflections on the path that brought me here.
Chapter One: Falling Into the Fire
Original Publish Date: March 6, 2025
Tomorrow marks one year since I took my last medical leave from my corporate job. While that wasn’t the start of my journey, it was the moment I fell into the fire — a breaking point that would burn away everything I thought I knew about myself and ignite a new beginning.
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For months leading up to that day, I had been consumed by debilitating anxiety and depression. The flames had been smoldering beneath the surface for years, but the spark that set my world ablaze came in March 2023. A skiing accident shattered my physical stability, rupturing my ACL, partially tearing my MCL, and ripping my meniscus in two places. I was medically evacuated from the mountain, taken to urgent care, and then sent to the hospital. In an instant, my mobility was stolen from me, and with it, the coping mechanisms I had relied on for years to stay afloat.
In the months that followed, the fire spread. My mental health unraveled at an alarming rate. I had struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my life, but this was different. This was an inferno. Panic attacks, insomnia, crushing fatigue, brain fog, relentless muscle tension, and headaches became my daily reality. I felt like a phoenix trapped in its own flames — melting, dissolving, losing all sense of form.
Late that summer, I was thrust into an intense work period—relentless deadlines, seven-day workweeks, and no room to breathe. The embers of my resilience crumbled. My already fragile mental health collapsed, and I was forced to take a two-week leave. Just as I stepped away, I received the call I had been waiting for—my name had finally come up for knee surgery. Relief flooded me, not just because my knee would be repaired, but because I knew I was guaranteed an additional six weeks away from work. That relief should have been a warning sign, but I didn’t recognize it then.
I underwent surgery and focused entirely on rehabilitation—rebuilding my knee, regaining strength, and reclaiming my ability to move. In doing so, I pushed my mental health to the side, convincing myself that if my body was healing, my mind must be, too. After eight weeks away from work, I told myself I was ready. I stepped back into the office, certain that I had emerged from the ashes, stronger and renewed.
I was wrong.
On my very first day back, the flames flared up once more. A panic attack forced me to leave early, but still, I told myself I could push through. Each day, my symptoms worsened. Each day, I ignored them. The fire raged, and I stood in the middle of it, refusing to acknowledge that I was burning alive.
By mid-December, my return-to-work plan ended. I threw myself into the distractions of the holiday season — shopping, decorating, gathering with friends and family. Anything to avoid the inferno growing inside me. But as the new year arrived, the distractions disappeared, and I was left standing in the embers of my own exhaustion. Work was demanding more of me than I had to give. I pleaded for relief, but the pressure only mounted. Each day, I felt myself cracking, splintering, until finally—I shattered.
In the weeks leading up to March 7, the fire consumed me entirely. The panic attacks intensified. My exhaustion became unbearable. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function. Then came the darkest part of the blaze — the thoughts of hopelessness, worthlessness, guilt, and inadequacy. I felt like a burden, like dead weight, like ash drifting through a world that no longer had a place for me. I found myself crying at work, unable to stop, unable to even understand why.
Then came the moment that terrified me most — the moment when the fire whispered thoughts of ending it all. That was when I knew I had to act. I reached out to my doctor, my partner, my psychologist. They surrounded me with support, ensuring I got the help I needed. My doctor took me off work immediately.
When I informed my manager, I was met with indifference — cold, sharp, dismissive. At the time, I barely registered it. I was too consumed by my own survival. But looking back, I see how that moment deepened my wounds, planting the first seeds of the realization that I could never return to that workplace.
Thankfully, my leave was approved for the full three-month short-term disability period. And so, my next transformation began. The old me—the one who had spent years fighting through the flames, clinging to a life that no longer fit—was reduced to ash.
But from the ashes, something new was waiting to rise.
Up next—the cocoon stage of my healing journey.
Chapter Two: The Beauty of Cocooning
Original Publish Date: March 17, 2025
Spring is usually thought of as a time of reawakening — the earth stirring back to life after the long, cold slumber of winter. But last spring was different for me. Instead of blossoming, I was retreating. It was the beginning of my own winter — a season not of blooming, but of cocooning. A time for stillness, for rest, for slow and quiet recovery.
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In those first few weeks of my medical leave, I slept more than I had in years. I wrapped myself in warmth — soft blankets, soothing baths, the quiet safety of my home. It was a full retreat, a hibernation of the soul. Yet, even in the depths of that winter, small sparks of connection kept me tethered. My sister and I messaged every day, our words becoming lifelines strung across the cold. My partner’s love was a steady presence, like a fire burning quietly through the night. Their warmth reminded me that I was not alone. That even in the harshest winters, there are embers that refuse to go out.
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Encouraged by their unwavering presence, I opened up further — to my closest friends, to those who truly saw me. The love and acceptance they offered was like the first thaw, overwhelming in its depth yet profoundly healing. My psychologist became a guide through the snowbound landscape of my mind, walking beside me with patience and kindness. She held space for my grief, gently teaching me self-compassion, reminding me that healing is not a destination but a journey. She helped me unearth the small joys I had forgotten — the things that once made me feel alive.
It was more than a month before I felt ready to step outside my cocoon. My soul, still fragile, had begun to mend. The world, once too sharp and overwhelming, started calling me back. Slowly, cautiously, I emerged. I took my first tentative steps outdoors, feeling the cool spring air on my skin, the damp earth beneath my feet. I sat in the grass, watching birds flit from branch to branch. I let the sun kiss my face, warming places within me that had felt frozen for so long.
Before long, I found my way back to the mountains. I hiked through wildflower-strewn trails, pausing often to take photos, capturing glimpses of renewal all around me.
I sat by a rushing waterfall, letting the mist settle over my skin like a baptism. I breathed deeply. I healed.
But just as the buds of new growth were beginning to unfurl, the looming shadow of my old life returned. The thought of going back to work crept in — not as a whisper, but as a heavy weight of expectations, pressure, and stress. My short-term disability was running out.
Conversations about my return began, and with them came the weight of old fears. Anxiety surged. Insomnia clawed its way back. My body, still weary from the long winter, collapsed again under the pressure.
It was then that I finally saw a psychiatrist. The assessments were thorough, the verdict swift — major depression, burnout, an anxiety disorder, complex PTSD, and more assessments to come once I was stable. I was in no shape to return to work and would need at least six months, maybe a year, before I was ready. I was stunned. I had thought spring was edging in, yet winter had not fully released its hold on me.
I re-cocooned, trying to nurture and protect my fragile existence. The fear and uncertainty were suffocating. I didn’t know how long I would be away from work, and though the whisper of another path had begun to trickle in, I couldn’t yet grasp it. The truth eluded me, buried beneath layers of fear.
But seasons change, even when we don’t feel ready for them. And so, another season of transformation began. This time, it was not just about healing, but about self-discovery, about imagining something new. What did I need to truly thrive?
The burnout still lingered, but as summer stretched across the horizon, I felt the shift within me. My winter was melting into spring. My roots, once buried in frozen ground, began to reach toward something new — something warmer, something more alive. Renewal was coming. And I began to see that in time, I would be ready.
Chapter Three: A Powerful Transformation
Original Publish Date: April 2, 2025
As summer bloomed I felt myself taking root, grounding deeper into the soil of self-discovery, while new buds of possibility reached toward the sky.
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The frost of exhaustion, anxiety, and self-doubt was beginning to recede, though its remnants still clung stubbornly to my bones. Each day, I fought through the lingering weight of brain fog, panic, and nightmares, but I also felt the slow, deliberate return of warmth — of life.
I listened to my body, giving it what it needed to bloom again. Some days called for rest, others for sunlight, and on some, I found myself moving — biking, tending to household projects, exploring the world beyond my own four walls. With each act of self-care, I felt a gentle stirring beneath the surface, a whisper of renewal.
In this season of awakening, I set out to truly know myself for what felt like the first time. I explored new hobbies, devoured books outside my usual tastes, let music move me in ways I hadn’t before. I spent time in deep conversations with loved ones, and even deeper solitude with myself. The more I unearthed, the more I realized a piece of the puzzle was still missing. I understood the factors that had led to my health challenges, but there was an underlying question I couldn’t shake: Why?
Why had I chosen an unhealthy marriage? Why had I stayed in it for so long? Why had I strayed so far from my original career path? Why did my life feel like a pair of ill-fitting shoes, forever pinching and rubbing in all the wrong places? Why had I never truly felt at home within myself?
As the questions about my past and present swirled like restless leaves in the wind, the weight of my uncertain future loomed on the horizon, vast and unshaped. The longer I was away from my corporate job, the clearer it became how much it had been eroding me. The thought of returning sent an icy shiver through my spine, a bone-deep knowing that if I stayed, I wouldn’t make it out unscathed. I began to take stock. What parts of my work had brought me joy? What had drained me? Had I strayed from my intended path for a reason, or had I simply been lost in the storm?
I sifted through possibilities, considering degrees, certifications, and new career avenues. Addiction counseling seemed like a close fit, and for a while, I leaned toward it. But logistical barriers cast a shadow on this possibility — uncertainty about work placements, the possibility of uprooting my life. It felt almost right, but not quite. I resigned myself to the idea of returning to corporate work while studying something that would help me build a different future, a half-measure that brought momentary relief but no real resolution because – what would I study?
Then, by sheer happenstance, I stumbled upon clinical hypnotherapy. At an acupuncture clinic, of all places, I read the bio of a local clinical hypnotherapist and felt an immediate, visceral knowing. A spark. A pull. A whisper of destiny. I dove into research, scouring schools and accreditation boards, searching for something reputable, something real. And then I found it — the Canadian Academy of Clinical Hypnotherapy, one of only two accredited schools in the country. It was exactly what I had been searching for. I applied. I interviewed. I was accepted.
It was only then that I remembered: years ago, when I was crawling my way out of my broken marriage, a hypnotherapist had helped me find my footing. Since then, I had seen various counselors and psychologists, each guiding me through different chapters of my healing. But that hypnotherapist had been my first step. My first real transformation. And now, as if life had been patiently waiting for me to catch up, I realized: this is what I’m meant to do.
While I pieced together my future, my past was also being rewritten. The diagnostic process with my psychiatrist and psychologist was slow, meticulous, and draining, but when the final verdict came, it was both a revelation and a confirmation — confirming burnout, PTSD, high levels of anxiety, depression and emotional dysregulation, but finally revealing the underlying cause — severe ADHD, combined type. The words settled over me, equal parts weight and lightness. I grieved a lifetime of struggling to keep up, of feeling like I was perpetually a step behind, of internalizing inadequacy and self-doubt — it all suddenly made sense. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t failing. My brain simply worked differently, and now I had the key to unlocking my true needs and my full potential.
I felt myself settling into this new reality. I devoured information about ADHD, mapping my strengths and weaknesses, learning how to navigate a world that had never been designed for minds like mine. I sought out professionals to guide me, unlearning the habits and beliefs that no longer served me while learning new skills, acceptance, and how to thrive. It was still a struggle. In many ways, it felt like a death — the death of the person I had believed myself to be. Like the trees shedding their final leaves, the last remnants of my old life fell away, leaving behind only bare, raw truth. But even in loss, there was beauty. I was returning to school, into an area of study I was intrigued by and passionate about. An opportunity that breathed fresh life into my bones and gave me the energy to keep going. Hope. A homecoming.
This wasn’t the onset of another long, bleak winter. No, this was something different. This was a season of gathering strength, learning, growing. This was the quiet before the bloom.
Spring would come again. And when it did, I would emerge—not as the person I had been, but as the person I was always meant to be.
Chapter Four: Stepping Into the Sun
Original Publish Date: April 28, 2025
The next several months of my journey were all about self-discovery, self-acceptance, and stepping fully back into my true self. I found myself embracing a life I had always quietly yearned for — even when I didn’t consciously know it. I stopped fighting the changes and surrendered to them. And when I did, it was as if the fog lifted, the clouds parted, and for the first time in a long time, I felt lighter.​​
Fear still crept in from time to time, whispering its familiar doubts: Are you sure you're doing the right thing? Can you really make this happen? But unlike before, I didn’t let fear engulf me. I stood up to it, confident and unwavering. I knew, deep down, that I was doing the right thing — and that I could really make it happen.
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The universe responded to my courage with signs: my energy returned, I engaged with the world again, and for the first time in years, I felt excitement — not dread — about my future. I knew things would only continue to get better.
I started school.
I found a place to practice my new craft.
And I took off with new wings.
Alongside this new beginning, I continued working closely with my psychologist, psychiatrist, and now an occupational therapist, building the skills I needed to accommodate my neurodivergence and truly thrive. Healing wasn’t something happening in the background anymore — it was woven into every day, into every step forward.
I was energized by my studies and immediately at home in my new practice. This was right. I was all in. Or so I thought.
Life, as it often does, tested my commitment to this new path. As my long-term disability period wound to a close, I began discussions with the HR department about returning to my corporate job. And suddenly, I found myself paralyzed with indecision.
Should I go back?
Should I ease into the financial safety net corporate life offered until I was ready to fully launch my new career?
Or should I sever that tie completely and devote myself to my new path?
I didn’t know what role I would be returning to, who my boss would be, or what the environment would look like. It was all unknown — and it was terrifying. But in that fear, I found clarity. I realized that fear wasn’t a warning to retreat; it was a reminder of how much I had outgrown that chapter. I decided not to return.
But just as I settled into that decision, life dangled another temptation in front of me: the offer of what once would have been my dream job. A role with someone I deeply respected, someone I trusted to accommodate my ADHD needs and support my mental health. The job was aligned perfectly with my skills and my corporate background.
And so, I wavered.
Maybe I could go back.
Maybe it would be different this time.
Maybe I could do it all — work full time, study, build my practice.
I said yes.
And almost immediately, the darkness crept back in. Anxiety, panic attacks, exhaustion, emotional disengagement — symptoms I had worked so hard to heal — came roaring back.
But this time, I saw it happening.
This time, I acted before it swallowed me whole.
I realized I had a choice: I could fall back into an old, familiar pattern of surviving, or I could choose life — real life, aligned with the person I had become.
I chose life.
I chose myself.
I made the decision to fully, finally leave the corporate world behind.
It wasn’t easy. Writing my resignation letter was one thing; sending it was another. I wrote it. I stared at it. I walked away. I came back. I stared some more. I shut the computer off. I turned it back on. I stared at it again. Finally — with shaking hands but a steady heart — I hit send.
A flood of emotions followed. But it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret. It was stillness.
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It was calm.
It was hope.
It was a deep, unwavering knowing: this is right.
I haven’t looked back.
Yes, I worked with some truly amazing people — many of whom I still count as friends. And I know I haven’t lost them. Life continues to bring amazing souls into my orbit, because now I’m moving in alignment with my true path.
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I’ve come a long way from the person I was a year ago — someone paralyzed by deep depression — to the person I am today, walking a new path with my head high and my heart full.
Over the past year, I weathered all the seasons within myself. And finally, I stepped out into the sun.
The end of a chapter — But nowhere near the end of my story.
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Tending the In-Between
Original Publish Date: June 13, 2025
It’s been a little while since I last wrote.
After sharing the winding path that brought me here — through seasons of burnout, the shedding of old layers, and the slow, patient work of healing — I stepped back from this page. Not out of avoidance, or because the journey stopped, but because something new is beginning to take root beneath the surface.
Over the past few months, I’ve been tending to something new. Quietly. Intentionally. I've immersed myself in study, practice, and the hands-on work of helping others navigate their own inner wilderness.
Every day now, I have the privilege of sitting with people in the raw and real places where old stories unravel and something brighter begins to emerge. Through coaching, guiding, and deep listening, I help others reconnect with and remember the strength that was never lost, only buried. Together we listen for the whispers beneath the noise.
I sit with people in the tender in-between spaces — the moments where growth hasn’t yet blossomed, but the ground is shifting. Together, we clear what no longer serves, water what’s been forgotten, and gently encourage new life to emerge.
I’ve also been growing a vision, softly and with care, like planting seeds before spring fully arrives. And while I'm not ready to say too much just yet, I can feel something even bigger taking shape — a space that holds not just healing, but community. A place for those who are ready to rise. A place where growth is welcomed, honored, and supported. Something beautiful is on its way.
If you’ve been feeling the stirrings — of burnout, of restlessness, of knowing there’s more to your life than the roles you’ve played or the wounds you carry — you’re not alone. And you don’t have to navigate the path alone either.
Whether you’re curious about what’s possible, craving a reset, longing for peace, or simply feeling the call to reconnect with yourself... I’m here. Rooted. Growing. Ready to walk with you.
With gentle strength,
Michelle
From Cinders to Strength... and Forward
Original Publish Date: September 30, 2025
When I first began writing here, I was standing in the ashes of burnout and loss, trying to make sense of who I was and what remained. These pages have held my fire, my cocoon, my sun, and the tender in-between spaces where growth was still unseen but quietly taking root.
Through writing, I found my voice again. Through healing, I remembered my strength. And through all of it, I carried the hope that sharing my journey might offer a spark of recognition or comfort for anyone walking their own path through the fire.
Today, I find myself not only walking in the sun but planting something new. My journey has led me into the work I was always meant to do: helping others navigate their own inner wilderness, guiding them back to themselves through the practice of clinical hypnotherapy.
And so, it feels right to bring this chapter to a close. Cinders to Strength will always be part of my story, the place where I rose from the ashes. But my writing and my work now belong in a new home, one that reflects not only my healing, but the healing I now offer to others.
I would love for you to join me there: Michelle Bogdasavich - Registered Clinical Hypnotherapist. On my site, you’ll find my latest reflections, resources, and ways we can work together.
Thank you for walking alongside me here. For reading, witnessing, and growing with me. This is not an ending, but a continuation. A new season. A new beginning.
With love and gratitude,
Michelle
Heal. Overcome. Reconnect.
