There are days when the smallest things feel oversized. A tight muscle suddenly feels symbolic. A lump in the throat lingers longer than expected. It’s strange how emotions arrive without asking permission, as if they’ve chosen a random Tuesday to stage an unannounced parade.
I move through the day with this invisible weight, pretending nothing’s happening, while inside I’m busy trying to hold myself together. It’s unsettling how private frustration can be; how the world continues normally while you’re quietly swelling with noise.
What surprises me most is how loneliness shows up, even when I’m surrounded by people I genuinely care for. It feels like standing in a crowded room and sensing a pane of glass between me and everything outside it. I’m there, I’m speaking, I’m listening, and still I feel cut off from the ease I want. I miss connection I can’t name. I miss ease. I miss feeling steady inside myself.
Sometimes the tears come without warning. It isn’t because some disaster happened, but because too much has been building up inside me —
small disappointments, words I never said, expectations I never admitted I was carrying. Holding yourself together while keeping all this inside is exhausting. This fatigue lives in the body in places that are hard to name, and everything gets a little harder because of it — breathing, moving, thinking.
Crying often is my only way to release it and let it go. I’m not looking for any solutions in those moments. All I want is presence — mine, or ideally someone else’s — without any demands or expectations. Just an acknowledgment that yes, being human is sometimes overwhelmingly tender.
We all want to be a little more seen, and a little more enough.
If a teenager asked me what this feeling is, I’d say it’s part of growing a heart that knows too much. If someone older asked, I’d guess they’d already know — the ache that appears for no single reason, but carries the weight of many small ones.
Today, I don’t feel balanced or brave. I feel raw in a way that makes me careful with myself. And maybe naming it is enough — not to fix it, just to stop pretending it isn’t there.
That’s where I am: inside the swell, letting it exist.
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