And once again, I find myself crumbling beneath the weight of a silent war, waged not with the world, but with the unruly tides within me. It’s a familiar ache—the kind that doesn’t scream but hums low beneath the ribs, echoing through the hollow corridors of a self I’ve both concealed and abandoned. I descend, not dramatically, but in a slow and intimate spiral into the darkness I’ve so meticulously dressed in light. A darkness I’ve spent years trying to tame, disguise, rename.
And yet, amidst this unraveling, there was love—or something like it. Something soft, unexpected. It crept in through the cracks I swore I’d sealed shut, blooming gently where only survival had grown before. At first, it felt miraculous, like grace whispered into the chaos. A serendipitous pulse in the center of my chest, reminding me of what it means to be held, seen, wanted.
But now, as the days stretch and the rawness of exposure lingers, what once felt like redemption begins to tremble under the weight of my fear. What I mistook for fulfillment now lays bare the trembling truth: that being desired is not the same as being safe. And to be truly loved—unconditionally, vulnerably—is to surrender to uncertainty. And that is something my bones have not yet learned to do without bracing for impact.
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