I was told that I handled it so well. People adore the illusion of resilience, it makes them feel better about not noticing the collapse happening right in front of them.
But let’s be honest.
I didn’t handle it.
I didn’t rise above anything. I didn’t “stay strong.” I didn’t “push through.” I went under. Slowly. Quietly. The kind of drowning where you’re still answering messages and showing up to things, so everyone assumes you’re fine.
I lost my spark, not in a poetic, candle‑flicker way, but in the way a light bulb dies: one sharp pop, then darkness. And I didn’t ask for help, because asking requires believing someone might actually care enough to stay. I didn’t have that kind of faith.
So I did the usual performance:
Suffered in silence.
Shattered where no one could see.
Wore a smile that lied better than I ever could.
People saw the smile.
They congratulated the smile.
They never wondered why it looked like it hurt.
They say I handled it well, but what they really mean is:
“I didn’t notice your suffering, so I assumed it didn’t exist.” And to be honest, I think they do notice, but acknowledging it is acknowledging that they are the reason. so they look the other way and pretend everything is fine.
I didn’t handle it.
I survived it, not because I was brave, but because life doesn’t pause for your breaking. It just drags you forward, whether you’re walking or being pulled by the hair.
Some days I was strong.
Most days I was a hollow version of myself, moving out of habit rather than hope. But I kept going because stopping wasn’t an option. Survival isn’t always heroic; sometimes it’s just mechanical.
And here’s the part no one likes to admit:
Sometimes endurance is just the absence of escape.
Sometimes you keep breathing simply because your body hasn’t figured out how to quit.
So no, I didn’t handle it.
I endured it.
And endurance is a dark, uncelebrated thing, but it’s real.
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