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Community.
It’s funny—to step into one
and feel like you should already know how to lead it.
To feel like a mentor by instinct.
A brother, a sister, an auntie.
Someone steady for those searching for family,
for the brokenhearted.
To feel half empty,
spread thin like butter across too much bread,
yet still able to offer more than words—
advice,
a simple meal,
companionship,
love.
To recognize the lost in children and adults alike,
each just trying to isolate a little less,
to be seen without being stared at.
To go from decades of solitude
to dozens of new faces in weeks,
learning how to share pieces of myself
without bleeding out—
pouring carefully, not emptying,
offering warmth without erasure.
To have worn so many masks
that my face forgot its own shape.
To have built personalities like scaffolding—
temporary, necessary, exhausting—
only to realize
that being myself
was the only thing anyone needed.
What I have to give
is love, understanding, patience, kindness.
They cost nothing.
They are renewable.
They fill my cup instead of draining it.
So I ask myself:
Is this people-pleasing or relationship-building?
Is it hypervigilance or empathy,
or simply the recognition
that I carry light
and can set it down beside someone else
without losing my own?
Vulnerability is the birthplace of change.
And I am ready.
Ready to unmask.
To unburden.
To unravel
and stitch myself back together
with intention.
I am learning and unlearning—
again and again—
that I didn’t have to do it alone,
that I don’t have to do it alone now.
To find the missing pieces.
To melt the gold.
To fill the fractures with love,
therapy,
medication,
with men and women
who see the real me
and do not flinch.
Who watch me stumble and fall
and offer hands, not ultimatums.
Kind words, not commands.
To do what my father could not.
To be who he cannot.
To repair what he did not break—
but broke in me.
To unhear and unlearn and unremember
the voice that became my inner weather:
You’re weak.
You hit like a girl.
"This is what I am paying for?"
If five thousand dollars fell from the sky—
would you catch it?
If it saved you?
If it saved your family?
That question became an argument.
An argument sharp enough
for him to regret my education,
to throw it back at me,
to call it worthless—
while I hold a master’s,
while I have built more with less,
gone further on thinner ground.
I have done more with less help.
I have survived without a net.
Emotions are chaotic and messy
when numbness finally cracks.
They arrive loud,
uninvited,
terrifying.
Feel.
Feel.
Feel.
Stay.
Sit with it.
Breathe with it.
Write it down
before it writes you.
Change what you can.
Accept what you cannot.
Learn the difference.
Find the wisdom.
Find the courage.
Find the serenity
that comes from staying.
Face the future—
whether real or imagined,
whether prophecy or trauma
wearing a disguise.
Let the other voice sink back underground—
the one dripping venom,
fed by years of abuse,
by inherited self-loathing
soaked into skin,
into muscle,
into memory.
This body learned survival early.
This brain hardened where it had to.
Scarred—
emotionally, financially, physically—
but still standing.
This mind is done running.
Done pretending
that who I am
is something to escape.
I am a helper.
I help others
and I am learning to help myself.
I do not have to empty my cup
to fill someone else’s.
There is room here—
enough space
to hold others
because I am finally holding myself.
Look for the helpers.
Be a helper.
I am a helper
who asks for help.
And I want to stay angry
because anger feels safer
than grief—
safer than the pain,
the sadness,
the loss
of what cannot be repaired
by the one who broke it.
But I am learning
to brave the depths of my own soul,
to descend instead of recoil,
to name and process the trauma
rather than keep it caged at the surface—
so the pain doesn’t live
one breath away from eruption,
so it doesn’t stay coiled
just beneath my skin,
waiting to spill.
So it can move.
So it can settle.
So it can finally loosen its grip
and make room
for something quieter than survival.
#MentalHealth #CheerMeOn #Grief #Depression #Anxiety #Addiction #MajorDepressiveDisorder #MoodDisorders #SubstanceUseDisorders
