I think about giving up more than I ever admit.
Not in a dramatic way—just the quiet, exhausted kind where you stare at the ceiling and wonder,
why am I doing this to myself?
My face is puffy, my body is heavy, and my spirit feels like it tripped over its own shoelaces.
And weirdly… that’s okay.
Because falling apart has been more honest than any of the times I pretended I was fine.
There’s something raw and oddly clarifying about crying until you run out of excuses. The aftertaste of those tears is truth.
Here’s mine:
There is strength in staying yourself when quitting would be so much easier.
People love the success story version of ambition.
They don’t talk about the loneliness, the longing for people who make you feel grounded, the self-inflicted pressure to look fearless.
I miss the ones who make me feel safe.
I miss simplicity.
I miss not having to justify why I want what I want.
And yet—I still want this.
That contradiction is maddening.
I’m not fearless.
I’m not unbreakable.
If anything, I’m a walking bundle of doubt, avoidance, and late-night junk eating disguised as coping.
I think about walking away all the time.
But every breakdown comes with a strange reset.
When the tears dry and the breathing evens out, the truth shows up:
I don’t actually want to quit.
I just want the pain to stop.
That’s an important distinction.
So I sit with that messy version of me—
the one who is tired of being “the strong one,”
tired of acting like I’m okay,
tired of hauling invisible expectations like a sack of bricks.
And I tell her:
You’re not weak. You’re just honest.
You can want rest without abandoning the dream.
There’s a sentence that’s been looping in my mind lately:
“I think a lot about giving up. And yet—here I am.”
That’s the truest bravery I know.
Not the loud fearless kind.
The swollen-eyed, slightly sarcastic, “fine, let’s try again tomorrow” kind.
Everyone assumes the hardest part is the climb.
I’m convinced the hardest part is staying yourself while you climb.
Not numbing out.
Not shrinking to fit your own performance of strength.
Not pretending you’re made of granite just to avoid vulnerability.
The world doesn’t need my polished version.
It needs the one who says:
I’m scared. I’m unsure. I screw this up constantly.
And I still care enough to continue.
If there’s one line I wish someone would tattoo on their soul from this, it’s this:
Real strength isn’t pretending you’re fine
— it’s saying “I’m not” and trying anyway.
That truth stings.
But it also frees.
Today I don’t feel triumphant.
I feel tender, embarrassed, human.
And somehow, that feels more real than all my pretending.
I think a lot about giving up.
And today—again—I stayed.
Leave a Reply