Sometimes I wonder why I keep coming back to the same subjects. Why I keep writing about the darkness, the fear, the nights that don’t end, the thoughts I wish I didn’t have. It would be easier to move on, to pretend I’ve healed, to only talk about the parts of my life that look hopeful and put-together.
But the truth is, I’m still figuring it out too.
I talk about pain like I understand it, like I’ve learned how to live beside it without letting it swallow me. I tell people it gets easier. I tell them they’re not alone. And I believe those things — I really do — even on the days when I struggle to believe them for myself.
There’s a strange contradiction in trying to help others while you’re still hurting. I can give advice I haven’t mastered yet. I can offer comfort I’m still searching for. I can tell someone else how to keep going, even when I feel like I’m barely holding myself together. That doesn’t make the words untrue — it just makes me human.
I think a lot of us do this. We talk about our pain not because we’re stuck in it, but because we know how isolating it feels. We remember what it was like to think no one else could possibly understand. And maybe, by saying it out loud, by putting it into words, we can make that loneliness feel a little less heavy for someone else.
I don’t write about these things because I’ve conquered them. I write about them because they’re still part of me. Because pretending they don’t exist doesn’t make them disappear. Because honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable, feels better than silence.
If even one person reads this and feels a little less alone — if someone realizes their thoughts don’t make them broken or weak — then it’s worth being this open. It’s worth admitting that I’m still figuring it out, still healing, still learning how to live with the parts of myself that hurt.
Maybe that’s the point of sharing at all. Not to prove that we’re okay, but to remind each other that we don’t have to be okay all the time to be worthy of being heard.
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