The noise of the room always seems to hum just a little too loud, like a radio left tuned to static. People are laughing, talking, moving in that hurried, effortless way people do when they actually fit into the scenery. But I’ve always felt like I’m standing behind a pane of thick glass—watching the world happen, completely unable to step through to the other side.
Photo by Ebahir from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/lonely-walk-on-a-foggy-pathway-in-winter-31260563/
Lately, that distance has turned into something heavy. It sits right behind my ribs, a quiet ache that doesn’t shout or panic, just stays put. Some days, the exhaustion of carrying it gets so loud that I catch myself wishing for a simple pause button. Not to vanish forever, just a moment where the world stops asking me to be present, to look okay, to perform.
It’s strange growing up right on the edge of things. You realize quickly that people drift. Friendships fray, familiar faces turn into strangers, and the people you thought would always be there simply step out of frame. When the room finally clears and the noise fades, you’re left looking at yourself in the mirror, realizing that the only hands left to put the pieces back together are your own.
That’s why I’ve learned to protect the quiet inside me. I talk to myself a lot—not out of loneliness, but because that inner voice is the only one that doesn’t lie. It’s cautious, and sometimes it’s tired, but it’s the anchor keeping me from drifting completely off course.
On the days when the weight gets heavy enough to bend my knees, I’ve started keeping a few small truths close, just to remind myself which way is up:
The ground I’m standing on might feel worn down, but it’s real, and it’s holding my weight.
Every hard season leaves behind a bit of steel where the cracks used to be.
You don't have to see the whole road to take one steady step forward.
Sometimes, the places that feel the most broken are just the stubborn soil where new things finally figure out how to grow.
I am still here, and I am still listening to the part of myself that refuses to give up.
I don’t know how long this particular chapter is going to drag its feet, but I know what it means. It means I’m fighting through something real. The clock is going to turn over eventually, the air is going to clear, and I’ll find my way back to the lighter, easier parts of life. Until then, I’ll keep standing right here, holding onto the quiet belief that I’m far from finished.