Learning to Stay When You Want to Flee
You’ve carried things that were never yours to hold. This series is a gentle return to what you didn’t lose, but left behind.
There are moments when your body
wants to disappear before your words even leave your mouth, moments when the
tension in a room presses into your chest, and instead of speaking the truth
that sits heavy in your stomach, you smile, nod, look down, and change the
subject because somewhere along the line, you learned that staying safe
sometimes meant staying silent, that keeping the peace often meant losing
pieces of yourself quietly and without protest.
You have gotten so good at
holding it together that even those closest to you don’t always realize you
have left, not physically, but emotionally, retreating into a version of
yourself that knows how to get through it, how to read the room, how to stay
agreeable even when something inside you is vibrating with unrest, and you keep
doing it, not because you want to lie, but because telling the truth feels too
expensive, too exposed, and too uncertain.
But what if staying didn’t mean
enduring, and what if presence wasn’t about forcing yourself to be calm or
composed or even articulate, but about staying connected to your own experience
without numbing it, letting your anger be felt without having to translate it
into something softer, letting your grief be seen without dressing it up as
strength, letting your truth live in your voice without cutting it down to make
others comfortable?
Because real staying doesn’t
always feel triumphant; sometimes it feels like trembling in your own skin and
not turning away, like sitting in a conversation that rattles your ribs and
still choosing to stay in your body, to breathe, to remain rooted enough to
witness what you feel instead of escaping into a mask that no longer fits.
And while it may not look
impressive, and it may not earn recognition, staying with yourself when
everything in you wants to run is a radical act of loyalty, because each time
you choose not to abandon yourself in the name of harmony or habit, you tell
your nervous system something it may have never heard before: that you are
worth staying for, even when it’s hard, even when you’re scared, even when the
old instinct to disappear pulls at your heels.
You
don’t owe anyone your peace to prove your worth. Coming back to yourself is the
way forward.
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