They speak of strength
like it’s something simple.
Like it lives in neat, controlled moments,
in quiet reactions,
in never falling apart.
They do not know
what it means
to be held under
for so long
that breathing itself
becomes a fight.
They have never worn
this kind of weight.
The kind of weight
constantly shaped by a body
that turns against itself,
no matter how hard I fight.
By pain that does not ask permission,
by days measured
in what I can endure.
The kind that settles into your bones,
lingers beneath your skin,
and carves exhaustion into everything
until even living
becomes something you push through.
And still,
they watched me crumble
and called it weakness.
They measured my breaking
against lives
that never demanded this of them.
They judged the way I fell
without ever touching
the ground I hit.
What they ignore
is how much of that breaking
was born from things
I did not choose.
A body fighting itself,
pain that does not let up,
trauma that lingers,
and the quiet weight of depression
that followed close behind.
But what they miss even more,
what they refuse to see,
and have all my life,
is that I have risen more than I have crumbled.
More than I have fallen.
Again and again,
I have come back from it.
What hurts most sometimes
is not the pain itself.
It is the silence after.
The absence of acknowledgment,
of the ways I have stitched myself back together.
Of the quiet healing
they refuse to see.
They keep me in a shape
that fits their comfort,
press me into a version
that makes my pain easier to explain,
easier to dismiss.
A version they made up.
A complete distortion.
To temporarily ease the thing that constantly nags at them inside.
They do not see me as I am.
Only as they choose to.
And I think about that.
About how it would never even cross my mind
to do the same.
Because I know
we all carry things
that are not always visible.
I would never assume
I understand their weight,
their past,
the things that shaped them.
And if it were reversed,
if they had to live inside this body,
this pain, this life,
this constant wearing down,
I cannot imagine
meeting them with judgment.
I cannot imagine
reducing them to their worst moments.
When life broke them,
or holding them there.
It wouldn’t even occur to me.
Not once.
And still,
I am here.
Not who they decide I am,
but someone they have never truly tried to know.
And I am blessed,
deeply,
to have those who do not treat me that way.
Those who see me.
Truly see me.
Not only in my pain,
but in my strength,
and in everything it took to get here.
Those who recognize
that I am fighting every day
to be better.
In body,
in mind,
in sprit and soul.
And somehow,
through all of it,
the illness, the pain, the unraveling and rebuilding,
I am stronger than I ever would have been without it.
Not because it was fair,
not because it was easy,
but because I survived it.
And for that,
I am forever grateful.
Not for what it took from me,
but for what I became in spite of it.
So many of us have felt so broken that giving up has seemed like the only way to get relief.
I recognize I don’t know the things, times and moments that brought them to their knees in despair.
Still, even now, I love them from the bottom of my heart.
That will never change.
But my love will come with distance and necessary boundaries.
Protecting my mind and heart will never mean I don’t love them.
The progress I’ve made, my mental and physical health, is just so much more important.
I won’t be hurt or have my mind twisted into believing I am who they say I am ever again.
I know who I am and I am proud of myself.
That is something I lost for a while, and now that it’s back, I cannot lose it.
I will always fight to keep it.
I forgot how this felt for a long time.
It’s one of the most precious things to me now.
More than ever.
To everyone battling struggles and pain that are invisible to others, everyone fighting more than they think they can handle and survive,
I just want to say I’m rooting for you.
You are already a survivor.
