This week was… heavy. And honestly, there haven’t been many light days lately. I keep wondering if my perspective is just clouded or if I’m stuck in some loop of hurt—but even if that’s true, today still hurt. A colleague spoke to me in a way that made me feel small again. Diminished. As if my effort to stay afloat means nothing to the people around me. Being kind feels like a luxury no one wants to spend on me.
I tried—truly tried—to de-escalate things, to clear the air, to show I wasn’t looking for conflict. But he pushed right through me. And in that moment, I felt helpless. Inferior. Disrespected. Unheard. Irritated in that deep, hollow way that sinks into the chest.
My mind spiraled. It’s exhausting trying to stay calm when you feel constantly triggered, when the instinct to retreat, to hide, feels so strong. I ended up calling a friend just to pour it all out, because that’s the only way I know how to loosen the pressure in my chest. Only trusted ears get those pieces of me.
And somehow, the spiral brought me back here—where I’ve so often come to spill everything I can’t hold anymore. You’ve been the place where I can let it all out and, even if I’m annoyed or overwhelmed, feel a little more at ease.
I’ve been thinking so much, therapy, reflection, reading, watching about how to take care of myself, how to soothe my own mind and body when everything feels too fast, too loud, too much. After logging out today, I lay in bed and drifted for a bit. When I woke up, I felt empty. Hollow.
So I opened the window and let the cold air wash over me on my face, my skin just to remind myself I’m here. That I exist. And for a brief moment, that simple sensation made me feel a little more alive.
It’s one of those days when the urge to disappear grows stronger, when the weight of existing feels unbearably heavy. And yet… I’m still here, gently holding myself together in the small ways I know how. Reassuring myself. Softening toward myself. Loving myself just enough to stay.
On weeks/days like this you need a scenery like this.
