I tried to outrun the ache in my chest,
Laced up distractions, called them rest.
I stayed busy, loud, politely fine,
Smiling on cue, dying on time.
I scrolled past feelings, slept them away,
Promised tomorrow I’d be okay.
I told myself strength meant shutting the door
On anything fragile, tender, or sore.
But pain is patient.
It waits in the wings.
It hums in silence.
It tightens its strings.
The more I ignored it, the louder it grew,
A storm in my ribs I never outgrew.
I called it weakness.
I called it a phase.
But it followed me through nights and days.
Until one moment—quiet, bare—
When running grew heavier than staying there.
I sat with my sorrow, no armor, no plan,
Just a trembling heart and the truth of who I am
I asked the questions I feared the most:
What if I’m tired?
What if I’m lost?
What if this anger is really grief?
What if this silence is begging belief?
I cried without fixing.
I felt without blame.
I said my own name without wrapping it in shame.
And slowly—so slowly—I started to see
That the wound wasn’t trying to defeat me.
It wanted attention.
It wanted a voice.
It wanted me present, not numb by choice.
The way out wasn’t up.
It wasn’t away.
It wasn’t pretending I’m stronger each day.
The way out was inward, honest, and raw—
Through every feeling I tried to ignore before.
And on the other side of sitting with pain,
I didn’t find weakness.
I found my name.
