This morning, I got off the elevator while holding my cell phone, checking emails, preparing for work.

It was something normal. Nothing special.

But as the elevator door shut behind me, I looked back and realized something.

Four years – or maybe five years – ago, I stayed at the same hotel. But the situation was a whole lot different.

Knowing that my room was on the top floor and I had to take the elevator, I was trembling. I got in and felt suffocated. I held my breath all the way up to my floor, trying to grab anything I could to support myself from falling. I was paralyzed.

What is supposed to be half a minute ride felt like forever.

I was so worried and felt unsafe all night, knowing that I was staying high above the ground. And that I had to retake the elevator the next day.

And it was only a 10-story building.

It was ironic, considering I was once a sucker for heights. I loved riding attractions that would throw me high up to the sky. I loved looking down from a bridge or the 40th or 50th floor. I was always elated every time I passed through an elevated toll road. Air transportation was always my first choice for long-distance travel because it was time-efficient.

I lost them all. I could not even walk across a pedestrian bridge.

I did not know when exactly I started developing agoraphobia. There was no traumatic event or such. But my therapist said it was a common symptom for someone with anxiety disorder, major depression, and PTSD. What I was afraid of was not the height itself; it was the fear of losing control.

Yes, today I just realized that it has been a while since I no longer made a fuss over using an elevator or passing through an elevated road. I got to enjoy playing flying fox a couple months ago. I slept soundly last night, despite feeling a bit unwell after receiving a booster shot.

It took years of pain, of denials, of medications, of practicing mindfulness, of persistence, and I finally got here.

Yes, I got here. And I will move forward, further.