Holding Space for Emotional Pain Isn’t Loud

This isn’t a grand unveiling.
No phoenix rising.
Not a tidy arc.
Or a moral waiting to make it all feel worth it.

Just the flicker of a few people who kept the light on
when I forgot there was a switch.

How many friends really ask how you’re doing?
Not the casual “how are you?”
but the ones who hear the static behind your silence,
the ones who notice when your messages shrink,
when your voice dulls,
when your eyes lose that stubborn shine.

They don’t pry, push.
They just stay—quietly, firmly—near.

This is for them.
The ones who didn’t wait for the story,
who didn’t need a reason to check in,
who understood that some pain isn’t articulate.

The kind of pain that doesn’t explode—it dissolves you.
Slowly. Quietly.
Like fog creeping under the door.
You don’t even notice it’s taking over,
until you realise you’re not breathing like you used to.

I’ve felt that.
I’ve lived in the hush between texts.
In the ache that doesn’t scream
but steals things—energy, voice, appetite, hope.

And still, they stayed.
Not always with words.
Sometimes just with presence.
A message that said nothing—but meant everything.
An emoji that was a lifeline.
A reel shared without a caption.
A call I didn’t answer, but felt seen by.

Smitha. Bee. Ennette.
Thank you for holding the space.
And to the quiet ones from a distance—
Samra. Rashmi.
Your quiet hellos speak volumes.

You didn’t rescue me.
You didn’t fix it.
But you reminded me I wasn’t invisible.
You mattered when I didn’t.
You were a pulse in the silence.

This isn’t a thank-you card.
It’s a reckoning.
A record of the ones who kept me tethered
when everything else felt frayed.

If you’re reading this and you’re in that space—
the ache that has no name,
the exhaustion that sits in your bones—
I’m not ahead of you.
I’m just here, writing beside you.
Trying, failing, holding on.

Even when I’m giving up,
I remember this:

Some people stay.
Some people see.
And sometimes,
that’s enough to keep breathing.

For all the love and more, in the smallest ways, you keep me going.
The ones who text me on the side, probably say nothing,
but tell me in unspoken words: your hums are my blessings.

Even when I’m giving up, I think about you.

If this piece sat with your ache too, share it with someone who’s been holding space for you—quietly, relentlessly, and without applause.
Or just leave a whisper below. I’m listening.