Every day, I watch people talk about peace as if it's something you find once and keep.
Peace.
Like it’s something you stumble upon one quiet morning, pick up gently, and tuck safely into your life. Something that stays.
But for people like me, peace is not a possession.
It is a visitor.
It comes without warning, and leaves before I am ready to enjoy it.
“Are you okay this morning?”
I heard my mother’s voice from the doorway. She didn't step in immediately. She never does. She has learned to respect my boundaries and ask before she invades my privacy. This time, I could tell from the look in her eyes that she had read me already.
I looked up from the edge of my bed, where I was sitting, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it had some secret answers.
“I’m fine,” I lied, faking a laugh before dropping my face to the floor again.
But she doesn’t move. Calmly, she called
“Marriott.”
There is something about the way she says my name that makes lying feel useless.
I exhale. Slow. I looked at her again.
“It’s starting,” I admitted.
She walked in slowly. Quiet but careful steps, like the room itself might break me.
“Where?” she asked, joining me on the bed.
I shut my eyes in pain and pressed my hands lightly at my chest “Chest first,” I said. “Back is joining.” I touched my waist.
She nods, neither surprised nor scared. She has seen this too many times to panic.
“Go and change. I’ll get your things,” she said, standing up and walking to my closet.
I said a faint prayer and held back the tears brewing within me from my pain. Finally, the peace I had had a few days ago was gradually deserting me. Leaving me with that small signal that grows into something that dethrones every will I have left to live.
By the time we got into the car, I was already losing the fight.
“Try to breathe,” my mother said from the driver's seat.
I almost laughed. I almost cursed.
Breathe?
Of course, I was breathing. I am always breathing. That's what everyone says, like it helps.
I scoffed. If only she would understand or feel what the body was feeling at that moment. Like it was folding in on itself, like my bones are tightening in ways they shouldn’t. Grinding against each other as if they were fighting. Every movement sends a message of protest through me. At such moments, nothing feels comfortable. Nothing feels safe
“I am trying,” I finally found the strength to reply, although it came out strained.
She glanced at me. "I'm sorry." She pushed a water flask to me. "Keep hydrating."
I let my eyes turn to the road from her already remorseful eyes. My hands were too weak to hold something. The road felt longer and like a punishment because every bump, every turn all registered in my body like an extra punishment.
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. I pretended to sleep just so I could distract my brain from participating in the world at that moment
I was welcomed to the hospital with that familiar smell. I wished it wasn't. Sharp. Clean. The only place I've spent longer hours apart from home.
A nurse tried to lift me into a chair.
“No, I can …” I protested, still trying to be strong. I struggled to stand but my legs betrayed me.
I sat back down. "Help me." I pleaded
“What’s your pain level?” She carefully reached for my hands as she helped me sit.
I stared at her. My breath was higher than usual.
“How do you people measure that?” I ask quietly.
She pauses for a second, then gives a small, tired smile.
“I know,” she says. “Just… try.”
"Is there something after high?" I asked
She stared at me again and nodded this time. Pity was beginning to settle in her eyes. Oh, how I detest her. I looked away.
Soon I was moved to a bed. Then drip. Different questions and medical terms.
“Do you want water?” my mother asked.
I shook my head. Tears began to stream down my face. I could barely fight or endure the pain now. How do you fight a pain you can't endure?
“What do you want?” she presses. Her voice was betraying the strong woman she was trying to be.
"Peace." I whispered in my heart. Of what use was it to say it out loud when nobody there could offer me that.
I turned away to the wall and let the tears flow freely without shame.
“God, You see me, right?” I made a quick prayer in my heart. "Help me."
“It will pass,” I heard my mother say softly.
I nod, but I don’t fully believe it.
Not because she’s wrong.
But because I know it will come again.
I dozed off and woke up hours later, the pain beginning to loosen its grip. Just a little. The medications must be starting to work
Although ,my body was still weak. My chest was still aching. But it felt like my storm was stepping back, not completely gone, but lighter.
I sat up.
“Gentle,” my mother said.
“I’m okay,” I replied. This time it felt true.
I reached for my phone. My mother had dropped it on the table beside me
“Who are you texting?” she asked.
“No one,” I answered. “I just want to write.”
She nodded. She didn't need to ask "what?" She understands perfectly. My only solace.
But this time, my words didn't come as a story. It came as words.
"Today, I thought I had peace. But I was wrong." I wrote. "The good thing is, I'm still here "
I paused. Then dropped my phone beside me and leaned back.
Then I let my thoughts wander when peace will ever stay long in my life. I didn't have an answer to that at that moment. I've never had one. But right then, even in my fragile state I held onto the peace I had waiting for when next it'll desert me.
