This piece is a spoken letter in the third person, capturing a journey through emotional turmoil, burnout, and the quiet act of choosing oneself. It was written as an honest outpouring after surviving a traumatic experience in 2022 and dealing with the emotional weight of family expectations, anxiety, and personal heartbreak.

She doesn’t remember when exactly it broke—

the trust,

the voice inside her,

the ease of breathing without counting each gasp.

Maybe it was in 2022,

when a job turned into a scam,

and no one saw how the rug was pulled from beneath her

dreams.

They just saw her standing.

They didn’t see the fall.

She smiled then.

She always does.

Because when you're raised in love,

but shaped by expectations,

you learn to smile through blood in your throat.

You learn to wear your wounds like silence,

and silence like obedience.

She gave herself to her family,

again and again—

their pride, their hopes, their futures

folded neatly in her trembling hands.

And then came the panic.

Sharp.

Cruel.

Uninvited.

Waking her up in the middle of the night,

screaming through her veins.

She tried breathing through it.

Tried hiding it.

Tried surviving it.

And she did.

Mostly.

Then came someone—

a friend, or something deeper.

A place she felt seen, maybe even safe.

But even there,

she gave and gave

until her ribs felt like candle wax—

melting slowly,

invisible in the act of lighting others.

And when things shifted,

when closeness blurred into confusion,

she didn’t blame him.

She didn’t curse him.

She just stepped back,

not in hate,

but in hope—

hope that if she gave both of them room to breathe,

maybe peace could live there again.

Maybe, for once,

she could hold herself instead of holding everyone else.

But the ache lingers.

In her skin.

In her breath.

In the way the world asks her to be okay when she’s just trying to be.

She stayed in bed today.

Called it “rotting.”

But really, it was rest.

A holy pause.

A surrender.

Because even candles need darkness to remember their own light.

And now,

she whispers this into the night

not for sympathy,

not even for saving—

just for truth.

Because she’s burned bright for too long.

And now she wonders,

softly, painfully, honestly:

Will I conquer my own mind?

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