Keeping My Head Above Water

I think I finally understand something about myself that I couldn't quite put into words before. There were so many days when I questioned why I wasn't crying or why I felt even the slightest sense of being okay. It almost made me feel guilty, like something was wrong with me for not falling apart the way I thought I should. But now I see it differently.

It's not that the pain isn't there. It's that, in those moments, I've managed to keep my head above water. In reality, I'm always right at the surface. Some days I can stay afloat, breathing just enough to get through. Other days, I'm drowning. But the water, the grief, the weight of it all, is always there. It never fully disappears.

I can reach into it whenever I want. I can tap into how I truly feel at any moment. But I've realized I can't do that every single day. If I did, it would consume me. So instead, something inside me holds back.

There's a kind of quiet restraint at play, almost like my mind knows exactly how much I can handle and when. It gives me space. Small breaks where I can function, where I can feel just enough distance from the pain to survive. Maybe that's what it is. Survival.

Because when I let myself fully feel it, I'm faced with a kind of emptiness that's hard to explain. A void. Something missing that can never be replaced. The longing for someone who is no longer here feels like it could tear me apart if I stayed there for too long.

So I don't.

Not because I don't care. Not because I've moved on. But because I have to protect myself. Sometimes I spiral into existential thoughts, questioning what my life is now and what any of it means without that person here. Those moments feel unbearably heavy, like I'm standing on the edge of losing control. But even then, something pulls me back before I completely unravel.

It's strange to think about, but maybe my brain is doing exactly what it's supposed to do. Maybe it's keeping me alive in the only way it knows how. Letting me grieve in pieces. Letting me come up for air.

And maybe that's not weakness.

Maybe that's resilience.