There’s a moment the body remembers before the mind does. that split-second where grief sharpens and the pulse stutters, like it already knows tonight might be heavy again. This came from the part of me that once believed ending my life could be a rescue letter, signed in silence, buried under “maybe this time it won’t hurt as long.” I kept trying to become the ghost my mother taught me to be, perfecting self-erasure the way she perfected teaching me I wasn’t worth staying for. Shadow makes a religion out of that. But there was also a smaller voice. tired. not soft. asking why I kept crawling back to a version of myself that only wanted the ending. That voice belonged to the child in me, tugging at my ribs asking “please… not like this. not again.” It took years to learn the difference between breaking and falling apart while still reaching for the pieces. One is surrender. The other is haunting. a quiet rebellion against the wound that wanted me gone. If you feel that ache. that hollow, trembling space between ruin and breath. know this, Some part of you is still choosing to stay. Even now. Even here. And that part is worth following back to.
