Healing in Pieces: How Building Things Helped Me Rebuild Myself
When I was 13, I didn’t have the words for how I felt. I couldn’t explain the heaviness in my chest, the way I’d zone out in lessons, or why I started snapping at people I actually cared about.
What I did have was a shoebox full of plastic bricks, buried in the back of my wardrobe from when I was little.
One day, after a particularly rough afternoon where I’d barely spoken to anyone, I pulled them out. No instructions. No idea what I was making. I just started clicking pieces together.
I didn’t think it was therapy. I didn’t think it was anything, really. But for the first time in weeks, my brain felt… quieter.
I sat there for two hours. Building. Unbuilding. Stacking. Sorting. Not thinking. Just doing.
At school, people saw me as “clever but difficult”. I was either too quiet or too defensive. I got good marks, but never seemed “present”. I knew people were worried about me, but I hated talking about feelings. It always felt like pressure: “How are you?” “Are you okay?” “You can talk to me.” I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t sure I could talk.
But give me …