The Broken Porch

  I used to be the life of the party. I was loud. Carefree. Always laughing. I could walk into a room and actually be in the room . Sometimes I miss her more than I know how to explain. Because grief changed something in me. Not one loss. Not one hard season. Years of it . Grief stacked on top of grief. Trauma I didn't have time to process before something else came along.  Losing people. Losing pieces of myself.  Being hurt, betrayed, blindsided, and somehow still waking up the next morning because life didn't stop just because my heart was tired.  After enough of that, your body starts living like something bad is always around the corner.  You learn how to survive. And, eventually, surviving becomes so normal that you forget what it felt like to just... live . That's what I miss. I miss laughing without something heavy sitting underneath it.  I miss walking into a room without part of me being somewhere else. I miss the version of me who didn't know how ...

I've been the strong one for as long as I can remember.  The one who figures it out.  The one who doesn't panic. (Much.) The one who absorbs the hit and keeps moving.  It sounds admirable when you say it like that.  But strength, when it becomes your identity, can start to feel like a cage.  Because once people decide you're strong, they stop checking if you're ok.  They assume you'll manage.  They assume you don't need help. They assume you can carry it.  And you can. That's the problem. You can carry a lot. You can carry the emotional weight. You can carry the responsibility. You can carry the silence. You can carry the disappointment.  You can carry it so well that no one realizes how heavy it's getting. There's a particular kind of loneliness that comes with being the strong one.  It's the loneliness of being relied on... but rarely relieved. Of being leaned on... but rarely leaned into.  Of being needed... but not always nurtur...

It's been a while since I've written here.  Not because I didn't have anything to say... but because life has been heavy in a way that doesn't leave much room for words.  The kind of heavy that comes from holding too much.  Lately, I've felt stretched thin. Trying to take care of everything...  the house, the responsibilities, the emotions, the details no one else seems to notice.  Taking care of my child when he's sick.  Trying to keep life moving forward. Trying to stay steady. And somewhere in all of that, I've realized something hard: You can be surrounded...  and still feel completely unseen. Sometimes it feels like you're only noticed when something is needed.  Like your presence is expected, your effort is assumed,  your strength is taken for granted.  And that's a lonely kind of tired.  Not just physical exhaustion... But emotional exhaustion.  The kind that comes from always being the one who shows up,  the one wh...

  For a long time, I thought resilience meant staying upright no matter what. Keeping pace. Managing what needed to be managed. Moving forward even when my body felt tense or tired in ways I couldn't fully explain. I didn't always recognize that what I called strength was sometimes just my system staying alert... ready, watchful, braced. Resilience doesn't always feel strong on the inside.  Sometimes it feels like holding your breath without realizing it. Like resting, but never fully settling. Like being capable on the surface while something underneath stays quietly on edge.  It took me a while to understand that this wasn't something wrong with me. It was something learned.  Our bodies adapt to what they're given. To stress that lingers. To uncertainty that doesn't resolve quickly. To seasons where staying aware mattered more than feeling at ease. Over time, that way of being can become familiar... even when the circumstances that shaped it have changed. The ...

  Trauma doesn't always look the way people expect it to.  It isn't just big events or obvious moments. A lot of trauma is quieter than that. It shows up in how you react. How you pull away. How you brace yourself without realizing you're doing it.  Most people don't wake up one day and say, I'm traumatized . They say things like: "I'm just tired." "I don't know why I react like that." "I feel on edge all the time." "I don't feel like myself anymore." Trauma lives in the body as much as it lives in the mind.  It changes how safe you feel. How much rest you get. How close you let people come. You might snap more easily. Shut down instead of speaking up. Stay busy so you don't have to feel. Or stay distant because closeness feels like too much.  None of that means you're broken.  It means your system learned how to survive.  The hard part is that trauma doesn't just affect you. It affects how you show up ...

  After the worst of it has passed, life doesn't make a big deal about it.  The days keep moving forward in ordinary ways. You still wake up tired sometimes. You still forget things. You still laugh unexpectedly.  From the outside, it might look like nothing ever happened.  But inside, something has shifted.  What remains after deep hurt isn't the pain itself... not the sharpness of it. It's the way you move differently now. More carefully in some places. More honesty in others. You don't force yourself through moments the way you used to. You pay attention to what asks for patience and what asks for rest.  There's a new awareness that settles in quietly. Of what matters. Of what doesn't. Of what you're willing to carry forward... and what you're not.  Some days still feel heavy in small, familiar ways. Other days feel surprisingly light. Neither one cancels the other. They just exist side by side, without explanation.  This part isn't about heali...

  Healing doesn't actually arrive the way we imagine it will. It isn't a moment of clarity or a sudden sense of relief. More often, it comes quietly... in small shifts you don't notice right away. A little less tension in your shoulders. A pause before reacting. A softening where something once felt tight. Healing like this doesn't erase what hurt.  It makes room around it. After deep pain, there's often a expectation to move on... to understand it, reframe it, grow from it. But, healing doesn't respond well to pressure. (Trust me!) It doesn't speed up when we tell ourselves we should be further along by now.  What I'm learning is that healing begins long before it looks like progress.  It starts with allowing yourself to rest without explaining why. With choosing gentleness even when you don't feel strong. With letting the ache exist without asking it to teach you something yet.  There's a quiet courage in not rushing past your own pain. In stay...

Some hurt goes deeper than we expect it to. It isn't always tied to a single moment or a clear cause. Sometimes pain builds quietly... layered over time, shaped by loss, disappointment, misunderstanding, or the slow realization that something isn't the way we hoped it would be.  Deep hurt doesn't always come from what happened. Sometimes it comes from what didn't. The words that weren't said. The care that didn't arrive.  The feeling of being unseen in places where you once felt known.  Pain like that doesn't announce itself. It settles in gradually. It changes how you move through the world. You become more careful. More measured. Not because you're bitter... but because you've learned what it costs to feel deeply.  There's a particular heaviness that comes with carrying pain you can't easily explain. When it doesn't have a clean story or a clear ending. When it lives in the quiet spaces of your days instead of the loud ones.  For a long...