There is a moment—rare, unsettling—when the noise finally stops.
Your brain, usually sprinting ten thousand kilometres a minute, suddenly falls silent. No lists. No plans. No rehearsed conversations. Just quiet. And in that quiet, one voice remains.
That’s the worst one.
It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t rush. It sits with you, patient and precise, and starts pulling at the threads of your soul. Piece by piece. Calmly. Methodically. If only it could eat away at your body as fast as it devours your mental well-being, you think bitterly. At least then something would show for it.
That voice tells you things you never invited it to say. You can’t survive this. You are not enough. You are not strong. You are not okay. You are not capable.
It’s relentless. It corners you in quiet moments, follows you into busy ones, waits until you’re tired and then digs deeper. It makes you doubt yourself at every turn, rewinds every mistake, magnifies every flaw. You overthink until thinking itself becomes exhausting—until you don’t even cry, because you no longer know which emotion you’re supposed to feel.
Your chest tightens. Pounds. Feels like it might split open from the weight of anxiety, fear, unworthiness, and that sharp, familiar disappointment in yourself.
So you try the things you’re supposed to try.
Count backwards from ten. Slowly. Deep breaths. Not working.
Okay. Take a walk. Clear your head. Except now it’s too clear—and the thoughts have room to grow louder, bigger, heavier.
Distraction. Ah yes. That must be it.
You cling to distractions the way a swimmer clings to driftwood. Anything to avoid facing the demon in your head—the one that never arrived with an angel carrying kinder thoughts. And it works. Briefly. Until the noise dies down, the distractions end, and you sit still for just one moment…
And everything comes flooding back.
But you’re not allowed to cry. You’re not allowed to fall apart. You’re not allowed to have a breakdown and search for peace.
No. You just have to keep going. And going. And going. And don’t you dare burn out—that’s a very big no-no.
You are a woman. A mother. A friend. A sister. A daughter.
It is your job to endure.
There is no switching off. No pause button. No space to unravel. You get up. You move. You get the kids ready. You do the run. You work the full day. You come home. You tend to the kids. You exercise. You care for everyone—making sure they feel seen, special, supported—pouring time, effort, and energy into them…
…even though you need those things just as desperately yourself.
The thoughts run so fast now that even your mind can’t keep up. Topics change mid-sentence, mid-feeling, mid-breath. Proof, maybe, of how crowded it all is in there.
And somewhere beneath the noise, a quiet question lingers.
When will you be able to say, it’s okay? I am enough. I am worthy. I’ve got this.
And the hardest question of all whispers back:
Do you ever really “have” this… or do you just survive it?
