The Tax on Being Alive
I used to think numbness was peace.
For months I floated through my days like a ghost wearing my own skin. No sharp edges. No ache behind my ribs when I remembered her laugh, or the way my mother used to say my name. Nothing. Just grey static and the quiet terror that I had already died and no one had noticed yet.
Then one Tuesday, while washing dishes, the glass slipped.It shattered in the sink and a shard bit into my palm. The pain was instant—hot, honest, alive. Blood bloomed bright red against the white ceramic, and for the first time in half a year I gasped like I’d been underwater too long.
I stood there bleeding and laughing like a madman because it hurt. God, it hurt so beautifully.
That night I let myself cry over everything I’d been avoiding. The ugly, snotty, shaking kind of crying. Every tear felt like another proof that my heart was still beating. That I hadn’t slipped away after all.
Pain is the receipt.
It’s the universe stamping your hand at the door and saying, Yes, you’re still here. Welcome back to the party.
I used to pray for the day I wouldn’t feel anything anymore. Now I understand: the ones who feel nothing aren’t resting. They’re gone.
So let it hurt.
Let your chest cave in when the song comes on. Let your throat burn when you remember the goodbye you never got to say. Let your body scream when you push it too hard at the gym or stay up too late writing the thing you’re scared to write.
The hurt is proof.
You are still alive, darling. Messy. Bleeding. Breathing. Gloriously, stubbornly, painfully alive.
And that is the most precious thing you own.
