silent storms
It’s funny, really — how people can look at someone and decide what they are, what they represent, without ever truly seeing them. To them, I am the warmth in the room, the one who keeps things light, who makes life a little easier to carry. I laugh easily, I know the right things to say, I keep the conversation flowing. I am reliable. I am present. I shine.
But they don’t know that every morning, before I step into the world, I have to remind myself how to be that person.
I wake up to an alarm that I snooze too many times. Not because I’m lazy, but because sleep feels like a battle I never win. The exhaustion isn’t just in my body — it’s in my bones, my mind, my soul. But I can’t let it show. So I get up. I move. I shower, dress up, fix my face. By the time I step out of my room, I am the person they expect me to be.
I keep myself busy because stillness is dangerous. If I stop, even for a moment, the thoughts catch up. The weight sets in. The emptiness grows. So I push forward — I work, I study, I take on responsibilities. I joke around. I listen to others. I give advice, encourage, support. People say they love my energy, my presence. They tell me I make things better. And I do. For them.
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But when the world quiets down, when the messages slow and the lights go out, that’s when it all catches up to me. The silence isn’t peaceful — it’s deafening. I scroll through my phone, not because I’m interested, but because I need something, anything, to fill the void. I replay conversations, overanalyze my words, wonder if I was too much or not enough.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind whispering all the things I don’t say out loud. That I’m tired. That I feel like I’m running on empty, like no matter how much I give, there’s nothing left for myself. That maybe, if I stopped being what everyone needed me to be, they wouldn’t love me the same.
Sometimes, I cry — but quietly, so no one hears. Other times, I just feel… nothing. Like I’m watching my life from the outside, going through the motions, waiting for a moment that never comes. The kind of exhaustion I feel isn’t something sleep can fix. It’s the weight of constantly performing, of always being “okay” even when I’m not.
And yet, tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all over again. Because that’s the thing. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t look broken. It doesn’t ask for help.
It just keeps going.
And so do I.
