This Isn’t The End Of Me, It’s The Becoming.

There were days I didn’t want to be here. Not in the poetic sense. Not in the “I’m tired” sense. I mean the kind of ache that sits in your bones and whispers that disappearing might be the only relief. I’ve had moments where the silence felt safer than the noise in my head. Where the idea of ending it all didn’t feel dramatic, it felt like mercy. I didn’t want to keep surviving just to keep surviving. I wanted out. I wanted stillness. I wanted the pain to stop echoing through my body like a siren no one else could hear.

And I almost did. I almost left. I almost let go of the version of me that was still holding on by a thread. But I didn’t. And now, years later, I can see what I would have missed.

I would have missed the way my kids look at me when they’re proud. The way they reach for me when they’re scared. The way they laugh with their whole bodies, like joy is something they inherited. I would have missed the kind of love that doesn’t ask me to perform. The kind that stays when I spiral. The kind that sees my mess and doesn’t flinch. I would have missed the sunrise on a good day, the kind that makes the sky look like it’s healing too. I would have missed the quiet mornings when my nervous system feels like it’s finally exhaling. I would have missed the softness I didn’t know I was capable of.

I would have missed becoming this version of me. The one who doesn’t chase closeness, but honors it when it’s real. The one who doesn’t need to be understood to be worthy. The one who still spirals, still aches, still grieves, but stays.

This isn’t the end of me. It’s the part where I learn to live without performing. Where I let therapy unravel me. Where I stop trying to earn love and start letting it land. Where I name the grief and still choose to stay.

I’m not healed. I’m not whole. But I’m here. And that’s enough.