There were days I didn’t think I would survive. Not because I didn’t want to—but because the weight was just that heavy. The silence in my head would scream so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. The darkness wasn’t dramatic. It was numbing, quiet, endless.
I didn’t make grand gestures. I didn’t leave notes. I just disappeared a little more each day.
But something always tethered me. A memory. A song. A text. A face. A whisper from deep inside that said, “Stay.”
I don’t romanticize survival. It wasn’t poetic. It was messy. It was minutes at a time. Sometimes seconds. It was holding on with fingers bloodied from the climb. It was breathing even when I didn’t want to. It was asking for help in the smallest, most broken ways. And sometimes, it was just not giving up out of spite.
People think staying means strength. Sometimes, it does. But sometimes, staying just means… staying. It means choosing not to go. Choosing not to give in to the voice that says no one would notice if you vanished.
I stayed.
Not because I always believed in hope.
But because I wasn’t ready to leave without giving myself a chance to heal.
I am not here because it was easy.
I am here because I chose not to leave.
And that is a story worth telling.
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