It was a Christmas like no other — not merry, not bright.
The lights still twinkled, but inside, all fell dim.
Beneath the tinsel, hush’d truths stirred —
carried through days so quietly laden,
they near passed as peace.
Yet stillness has a way of baring ghosts.
Memories I never summoned crept in unbidden.
Old wounds.
Regrets I’d long tried to bury beneath routine and reason.
At first, I named it sadness.
But soon, it proved heavier — more cunning.
Breath grew shallow,
my mind spun like a wheel unbroken by sleep.
I revisited every err’d word, every falter,
until my own thoughts turned sharp against me.
I tried to seem fine.
Smiled when prompted. Laughed when expected.
I played my part —
but within, I was coming undone.
And there —
in that quiet unraveling —
I knew:
I am not well.
Not broken.
Not fragile.
But soul-weary and in need.
And I was.
But the world mistook my cry for drama.
They heard my trembling voice
and called it noise.
They named my ache a performance.
But I was not acting —
I was drowning, silently.
Still, I found a therapist.
A stranger once.
To speak the buried took weeks.
To believe I was allowed to feel it — months.
If given the choice, I’d have taken taxes.
Long division.
Anything but unearthing the ruins.
And yet —
slowly —
the fog began to lift.
Two years on, I still walk the path.
Still learning. Still healing.
But the mind spins softer now.
The weight, though not gone,
no longer drags me under.
No grand finale.
No tale neatly tied.
Just one truth at a time —
and the quiet courage to stay.
