Essence of Life | Poetry

Some mornings,

you don’t rise—you surface.

As if you were underwater all night

and forgot how to breathe.

It’s not a sharp fall.

It’s a quiet one,

woven from half-finished thoughts

and the weight of things left unsaid.

It’s the kind of moment that calls for healing from within,

even if you don’t realize it yet.

You try to shake it off.

After all, the world is already moving.

So you do too.

However, somewhere between brushing your teeth

and answering a message with a smiley face,

a thought slips in:

Why does this feel so hard?

You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

Even so, your chest feels tight

for no obvious reason.

Still, you get dressed.

You nod in meetings.

You reply with a laugh.

You keep playing the part

because that’s easier

than explaining the ache you don’t fully understand.

You’re tired of pretending to be okay.

And yet,

you do it anyway.

Not because you want to—

but because you’ve always been the one

trying to fit in,

being a people pleaser,

making sure everyone else is comfortable

even when you’re falling apart.

Eventually, you start to feel hollow.

The days blur,

and your own voice

becomes something distant.

It’s not burnout alone.

It’s the loneliness

of being present for everyone but yourself.

Although it’s hard to admit,

you’ve been emotionally drained

for longer than you thought.

And just when you think

this might be your new normal—

you get caught off guard.

A quiet evening.

A cat stretching across your lap.

A song from years ago.

Something small and unexpected

that doesn’t fix everything—

but softens it.

And in that softness,

you begin.

This is what healing from within actually looks like.

Not a straight line.

Not a sunrise moment.

But a slow, uneven gathering of strength

in the places you once ignored.

You notice the chaos is still there—

but now you meet it differently.

Because something inside you has shifted.

Yes, life is full of ups and downs,

and the downs may still return.

But so will the tiny glimmers—

the warm mug, the silent nod,

the sunrise that doesn’t demand you smile.

So, no—this isn’t the end.

It never was.

This is a becoming.

A relearning.

An undoing of all the false versions of you

that were built to survive.

And as long as you keep reaching,

even if you fall again,

you’ll rise with more grace each time.

Because now you know:

your strength never came from pretending.

It came from breaking,

and then beginning—again.

It came from healing from within.