Starting Over in Fort Collins

I don’t remember the exact moment I stopped feeling like myself. It was gradual, like a long winter that sneaks in without ceremony. One day I was laughing at a friend’s joke in Old Town Fort Collins, sipping coffee at Alleycat, and the next I was canceling plans without even the decency of guilt.

It wasn’t dramatic, really. I still went to work. I answered texts. I showed up. But it felt like I was watching someone else live my life. A more tired version. A version that didn’t care about music anymore. A version that stood in the shampoo aisle at Target for fifteen minutes and still forgot what I came in for.

I know people think depression looks like tears, like breakdowns. Sometimes it does. But for me, it looked like nothing. No energy. No joy. No… spark.

I didn’t have a lot of money, and I definitely didn’t have the patience to call a bunch of therapists who’d put me on waitlists or tell me they didn’t take Medicaid. That’s the thing no one talks about when you’re poor and struggling—you don’t just have to fight your brain. You have to fight the system, too.

Still, something in me—maybe the last sliver of my old self—knew I needed help. I started Googling and scrolling on my phone at night. That’s when I found a site listing therapists who take Medicaid in Fort Collins, and it didn’t just list names. It actually felt… human. Like the people behind the site understood how hard it is to even make that first click.

I bookmarked the site and stared at it for days. Some part of me believed I didn’t deserve the help. Another part was terrified that I’d open up and nothing would change. That I’d still feel hollow. Still feel broken.

But I also knew this wasn’t sustainable. I wasn’t eating right. I wasn’t sleeping. I was starting to pull away from my family, and I couldn’t remember the last time I genuinely laughed. I clicked on a profile for a provider listed under Fort Collins Medicaid mental health counselors, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while—hope.

They weren’t flashy. The therapist’s bio said they focused on grounding techniques, trauma-informed care, and helping clients feel safe. That last part stuck with me. I didn’t even know what feeling safe meant anymore, but I knew I missed it.

The intake process was straightforward. No judgment, no snarky receptionist asking why I waited so long. I had my first appointment scheduled within a week.

Walking into that first session, I half-expected to be scolded for being a mess. But the therapist didn’t even flinch when I told them how long I’d been feeling this way. They listened, nodded, and for the first time in months, I felt like I wasn’t carrying it all alone.

We didn’t fix everything that day, or even that month. But each session chipped away at the fog. Some days I left still numb. Other days, I cried. A few times, I even laughed.

Eventually, I started to feel like a person again. I took a walk by the Poudre River and noticed how the sunlight looked on the water. I made dinner for my roommate. I called my mom, just to say hi.

I still have bad days. But now I have tools. I have language for what I’m going through. I know I’m not lazy or broken. I’m healing.

And it all started with a late-night search and a Medicaid counselor in Fort Collins who made room for me when I couldn’t make room for myself.

There was one session that really stands out. It was early spring. The trees along Mountain Avenue were still bare, but the air smelled like thawing soil and fresh beginnings. I had shown up late, flustered and embarrassed, certain I was wasting the therapist’s time. But they just smiled and said, “You made it. That’s what matters.”

We spent the entire hour talking about shame. Not the loud kind that comes from yelling or blame—but the quiet kind that sits in your gut when you can’t explain why brushing your teeth feels like climbing Everest. I cried for most of the session. The kind of cry that leaves you lightheaded and clean.

After that day, something shifted. I started noticing when my brain was lying to me. When it whispered that I was too much, or not enough. I learned to challenge it—gently, without scolding myself. I began to say things like, “This is hard, but I’m doing it anyway.”

I also found out that therapy wasn’t just for ‘fixing problems.’ It was a place where I could understand myself. Where I could be curious about why I shut down when someone raised their voice. Why crowded rooms made me feel dizzy. Why silence sometimes comforted me more than company.

By midsummer, I was showing up every week. I wasn’t afraid to speak anymore. I even brought a notebook. Wrote things down. Asked questions. My therapist started calling it “emotional detective work,” and weirdly, I loved that.

I began to notice my energy returning. I picked up my guitar again. I visited the farmer’s market and made tomato soup from scratch. I got a library card.

I still had hard days. But I had momentum. And I had a counselor who believed in me before I could believe in myself.

One of the most healing things my therapist ever said was, “It makes sense.” I had been spiraling about not being farther along, comparing my progress to others, and she calmly said, “It makes sense that you feel this way. You’ve been surviving, not thriving. That takes everything you’ve got.”

That sentence stuck with me. I wrote it on a sticky note and placed it on my bathroom mirror. Every time I caught my reflection, looking tired or puffy-eyed, I read those words and softened a little.

Over time, the tools I learned in those sessions started showing up in my everyday life. I found myself taking deep breaths instead of clenching my jaw. I began asking for breaks during stressful work meetings. I stopped apologizing for needing rest.

Therapy didn’t magically make my life easy. I still had bills, a job that drained me some days, and relationships that needed work. But it gave me a new way to be with myself. I learned how to hold space for my emotions without letting them drown me.

One night, I was walking home from a friend’s apartment near City Park. The sky was violet and streaked with clouds, and I realized—almost with shock—that I felt content. Not euphoric, not buzzing. Just… okay. Grounded. Like I could keep going.

That night, I pulled out my phone and revisited the website that first led me to care. I looked at the listing again, the one with the kind-eyed counselor who took Medicaid. And I thought: Someone out there is probably scrolling right now, just like I was, wondering if they deserve help.

They do. We all do.

A few months ago, a coworker mentioned they were having a hard time. They said it offhandedly, like they were joking—but I recognized the look in their eyes. That familiar glaze of fatigue, of running on fumes. I waited until the lunch crowd cleared and said quietly, “If you ever want to talk to someone, I know a place that helped me.”

They looked surprised. Then grateful.

It felt strange, being the one offering encouragement. I remembered how it felt to be on the other side of that conversation—convinced no one would understand. But now I knew better. I’d been through the fire, and I hadn’t come out untouched, but I had come out stronger.

I never thought I’d be someone who “did therapy.” It sounded indulgent, expensive, out of reach. But finding a provider who accepted Medicaid changed everything. It removed the biggest barrier, the one that makes you feel like help is for other people.

To anyone reading this, wondering if they’re too far gone or not sick enough or too complicated—I promise you’re not. Therapy is messy and hard and sometimes boring, but it’s also freeing. It gives you back your voice, your softness, your strength.

I still have my off days. I still sometimes forget to eat or scroll too long or cancel plans. But I also have mornings where I wake up with energy. Afternoons where I look forward to things. Nights where I feel at peace.

And that’s everything.

Recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s full of loops and pauses and strange detours. But thanks to that first step—finding a Medicaid counselor in Fort Collins who understood both my pain and my insurance—I now have a map. And even when I get lost, I know how to find my way back.