Whispers from the Versions I’ve Been

I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes in one. Many of them tragedies. Stories that haunt the corners of my mind. The reason I seem a bit off. Distant behind the eyes.

I also feel stuck. Somewhere between okay and completely shattered. Many of the people who knew the other version of me are gone now. Most of the people in my life today never met that version. The one that feels truer than this one. There are parts of my story I haven’t spoken aloud in so long. They used to define me. Labels. Tragic happenings. Trauma.

That version of me still lives right under the surface, hidden but close. I can feel her clawing her way back out. But I keep her tucked away because we’ve learned this world doesn’t make space for not being okay. For the comfort of others, and maybe for our own survival, we perform wellness. But there's a part of me that still needs care.

No one checks in when the crisis is over. When you perform wellness well enough, the calls stop. The texts stop. The check-ins disappear. And if you dare to be unwell again, you’re caught in this in-between. Cared for, maybe, but also made to feel like a burden when care becomes inconvenient.

I am so tired of this dance. Pretending I’m not shattered. Pretending I’m not hollowed out. Most days I’m just going through the motions, mirroring what I see around me. I secretly despise this strength. I hate the word resilience. I should never have been broken in this way. But here I am, expected to be the strong one. Treated as if I have it all together, while I’m still expected to hold space for everyone else. Because I’m a great listener. Because I know how to comfort.

But I shouldn't have to fall apart just to be offered a soft place to land. I shouldn't have to shatter to be cared for.

The lifetimes I’ve lived were violent. They replay in my mind at the most inconvenient times. These moments didn’t leave me stronger. They left me hypervigilant. Unable to rest. Never really able to feel safe.

There are parts of my story I’ve never spoken aloud. If I did, they would become too real. Some things I don’t even want to look at. I’m not sure it would help. I remember too well what therapy felt like. Ripping open wounds that just wanted to close. How that tearing led to my unraveling. Some things, it felt like they just needed to be left buried.

And still, I crave to be witnessed. To have my pain seen. It feels strange to admit that. Being seen as whole feels like a betrayal to her. The younger version of me.

I don't share this for pity. I share it because somewhere out there, someone else might be performing too. Might be quietly crumbling behind their practiced smile. I want them to know they're not alone. That strength doesn’t always look like holding it all together. Sometimes, strength is simply surviving. Sometimes, it’s daring to tell the truth of your pain. And sometimes, it’s allowing yourself to want to be seen, even when the world has taught you to hide.

We shouldn’t have to earn care through collapse. We shouldn’t have to bleed to be seen. But until the world learns how to hold pain without turning away, I’ll keep whispering the truth in case someone else needs permission to stop pretending.

If you see someone performing strength, look closer. There might be a story underneath they’ve forgotten how to tell. And if you’re the one performing, I hope you know it’s okay to lay it down. You were never meant to carry it alone.