They say,
“Don’t stress. You’re healing.”
But no one tells the sea
to stop drowning the swimmer.

It wasn’t just the fever.
It wasn’t just the cough.
It was the months that followed,
where my bones became battlegrounds
for things I couldn’t name.

I tried to forget them —
those who made my name feel small,
my worth conditional,
my presence a problem to solve.

I tried.
God knows I did.

But trauma…
Trauma is not polite.
It doesn’t leave when asked.
It settles in the shoulders,
tangles in the gut,
burns quietly in the spine
until one day —
you’re collapsing from nothing
and still being told
it’s all in your head.

Some days,
My mind went completely quiet —
numb,
like the world had turned gray scale.
I called it healing
because at least I wasn’t thinking
about them.

My brother,
my friends,
they whispered,
“It’s okay. This is how the world is.”
And maybe they were right.
But I think I was never made
for a world
that numbs itself
to survive.

I am in the sea.
No lifeboat.
No land.
But —

Small splashes.
A light flickering in someone’s eyes.
A message at midnight:
“Are you okay?”
A chair pulled beside mine
in silent solidarity.
You.

These were not miracles.
They were anchors.

I wasn’t supposed to be weak.
I told myself that
with every breath I didn’t take,
every sob I swallowed,
Every smile I wore like armor.

But maybe strength
isn’t how long you float.
Maybe strength
is how you learn
to trust the light again.

September 2025