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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