42 - The Cost of Resilience

People admire resilience. 

They call it strength. 

They praise the way you keep going, 

no matter what.

But they rarely ask 

At what costs?

For me, 

resilience meant working through grief

without grieving. 

It meant showing up 

while falling apart inside. 

It meant being reliable, 

even when I was barely holding on.

I wore it like armor. 

Polished. 

Impressive. 

But heavy.

And over time, 

it started to shape me. 

Not into someone stronger

but someone harder.

Hardening my soul came with a cost. 

I stopped feeling things that seemed good to stop feeling,

pressure, 

embarrassment, 

fear. 

But along with them, 

I stopped feeling joy. 

Stopped feeling fulfilled. 

Stopped feeling alive.

I became numb. 

Detached. 

Functional, but hollow.

And the worst part is

when I get hit from the wrong angle, 

when something pierces through the cracks, 

I crumble. 

Not just break

but shatter into tiny pieces.

And every time I try to gather myself, 

some of those pieces are lost. 

Gone. 

Never to be found again.

Resilience taught me how to endure. 

But it also taught me how to suppress. 

To disconnect. 

To keep going 

even when I should have stopped and asked for help.

Now I wonder

how many people are praised for surviving 

while quietly eroding inside?

How many are called strong 

when they’re actually just dead inside?

They say resilience is strength. 

But silence stole my softness. 

And somewhere along the way, 

a piece of me stopped returning