After experiencing psychosis in his early twenties, Matt Racher describes the gradual, often unseen process of recovery – and how small moments of support planted the seeds of hope. Through grief, patience, and perseverance, he began to rebuild a sense of self he once believed was lost.

Before sitting down to write this piece, I kept thinking about the idea of a seed. A seed that eventually grows into a thriving plant, contributing to the gentle and intricate ecosystem around it.

Once a seed is planted, it starts a quiet process that requires patience and a careful balance of environmental conditions. From the surface, as the seed lies in the soil, an observer may see nothing more than a patch of stillness in bare ground.

Even when the seed begins to sprout, hope can still feel tentative. Watching something grow needs patience, acceptance, and faith in a process that cannot yet be seen or felt.

My recovery from psychosis started in a way that felt akin to planting seeds.

Support planted the first seeds of my recovery

Most of these seeds came in the form of words, from peers, therapists, psychiatric providers, and family members. I remember very little from my early experiences attending mental health support groups. In fact, I only remember one thing from the first ten or fifteen meetings.

There was a man, perhaps in his early seventies, with long white hair and a beard and a wooden cane resting beside him. When I finally shared pieces of my experience, it came out as a subdued, almost dark admission of the fragmented chaos I'd experienced during my hospitalization.

The older peer said, "I have a lot of hope for you, young man. I was hospitalized almost seventeen times. I see you here, and I feel hope. You have your whole life ahead of you."

For some reason, I never forgot that.

Wise words revealed their value as time went on

At the time, the older man’s words didn't land. What he said didn't move me in any noticeable way through the fog of early recovery. But something in me whispered, “Hold onto this.”

Like a seed, it burrowed into my mind, although I had no way of knowing what it would ultimately become. I didn't think about it that night, or the next week, or maybe even for months. But it stayed. And when I needed it most, this seed began to sprout.

Another man once said in a group, "You keep your recovery by giving it away."

Again, I heard this, but I couldn't fully understand it. Still, it planted itself somewhere within me. As I began walking my own path and integrated recovery into my work as a clinical social worker, that seed began to take root.

Coming to terms with the life I thought I’d lost

What followed my initial experience with psychosis was a quiet, prolonged grief. As the delusions faded and reality began to return, I experienced a profound sense of loss. Not emotionally, but rather intellectually – an awareness of what was missing, but without the emotional tools to process it. It was as if a chapter of my life had ended, but instead of the story continuing, the next 500 pages were blank.

I believed my story had ended at age 25. I felt short-changed, as if my table of contents had promised something entirely different.

And yet, the seeds were planted.

Life doesn’t wait, but I had to

With each seed planted, more clarity came. It was a gradual process, typical of most things that grow to become meaningful. Some seeds were words. Others were actions. I was surrounded by people who refused to see me as broken, even when I saw myself that way. I remember thinking, “What's wrong with them? Are they in denial?”

Yet as my clarity began to emerge, impatience lingered – a drought that made it hard to trust anything beneath the surface was taking root.

I wanted a fully grown tree. I wanted fruit, immediately. I wanted my life back, my emotional connection, my creativity, my sense of awe and accomplishment. I wanted to laugh, to cry, and to feel everything in between. I wanted to be the version of myself I thought would keep growing.

Instead, what I got was soil – nothing to see yet, just something I had to keep showing up for.

Change showed up in small moments

Over time, something began to change. I couldn't always feel it, and I couldn't always see it, but there were subtle shifts and tiny markers along the way. Moments where I thought, “Okay… this is a little different than yesterday.”

Maybe I didn't have to believe every thought telling me, “This is it… this is who you'll always be.”

Other seeds followed:

"It's not the destination, it's the journey."

"It's not about achievement; it's about continuing the work. It's about cultivating the aspiration."

That last one came from my uncle David, before he passed. And like the others, I didn't know what to do with it at the time. But I held onto it.

What “faith in the process” looks like for me

Looking back now, I realize that every word, every act of support, and every moment that seemed to pass through me like a dart thrown into fog was not wasted. Each one helped to nurture something within me that I couldn't yet see.

What I've come to understand is this:

Faith in the process doesn't always feel like faith.

Sometimes it looks like showing up when nothing feels different.

Sometimes it looks like doing the same small things, over and over again, with no immediate reward.

Sometimes it looks like caring for a patch of soil that still appears dry and lifeless.

But underneath the surface, something is happening.

And then, one day, that seed breaks through.

It's not dramatic; a single leaf, a delicate flash of green. But it's enough.

Enough to remind you that growth was happening the entire time.

Enough to show you that your story didn't end – it was waiting to be rewritten.

And in that moment, hope is no longer something you borrow from others.

It's something you begin to grow yourself.

The information presented is solely for educational purposes, not as specific advice for the evaluation, management, or treatment of any condition.

The individual(s) who have written and created the content and whose images appear in this article have been paid by Teva Pharmaceuticals for their contributions. This content represents the opinions of the contributor and does not necessarily reflect those of Teva Pharmaceuticals. Similarly, Teva Pharmaceuticals does not review, control, influence, or endorse any content related to the contributor's websites or social media networks. This content is intended for informational and educational purposes and should not be considered medical advice or recommendations. Consult a qualified medical professional for diagnosis and before beginning or changing any treatment regimen.

NPS-ALL-NP-01798 JUNE 2026