Some days, I convince myself I’m fine that I’m exaggerating, that I’m seeking attention, that I should just be braver. Other days, the truth slips out quietly: I’m not okay.

Not broken.
Not hopeless.
Just not okay.

I’ve ignored that truth for a long time, hoping it would fade. It didn’t. It waited. And now it shows up in my body, in my sleep, in the days I can’t make myself go.

I don’t want to disappear from my life.
I don’t want anxiety to decide for me.

I just want someone — even myself — to believe that what I’m feeling is real, even if it doesn’t look dramatic from the outside.

Maybe this chapter isn’t about weakness at all.
Maybe it’s about how long I’ve been strong without being held.