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Each day, the unspoken struggles and the silent tears broke me a little more, quietly, slowly, almost imperceptibly. Some days, I asked myself, ‘What if today I finally lost it?’ Life had messed me up over and over, until there were days when I could no longer see the worth in staying, or even the strength to try. Still, I’d choose to live for this moment. I’d choose to enjoy the rareness of love, the complicatedness of those bittersweet emotions. For the intensity of it all, and the pain that always comes unseparated, are reminders that I am alive. And as long as I am still breathing, I believe there’s hope and opportunity waiting to be embraced. And today, I chose to just breathe and to simply exist. M. | August 2026

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August is almost over. And I think I am a little sad to see it go. Not because it was an easy month. It wasn't. The losses. The fights. The hurts that came with them. There were days when I could barely find my way through my own thoughts, and nights when being alone with them felt like being trapped in a room with all the versions of yourself screaming and fighting each other, while you sat somewhere in the middle, listening to all the awful things they have to say about you. Still, the days kept coming. Each morning; I got up. I carried on. I tried to believe that feeling this much would not always feel like drowning. And yet, between all the hard moments, there were still beautiful things. The familiar comfort of home. Someone who loves me. An evening sky I almost missed because I was too lost in my own head. Maybe that is what I will remember most. That even in a month that took some things from me, life kept leaving little things behind. Small reasons to look up. Small reasons to stay present. Small, constant reminders that I am loved, no matter which version of myself decided to take the wheel that day. M. | August 2026

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My friend has been gone for a week. I still catch myself wanting to tell him things. Something that happened today. Something I know he would have laughed at. My mind is still trying to make sense of this new absence. Then I realised. My father has been gone for eleven years. Eleven years, and I still don't think I have really learned life without him. I don't even know if my mind has ever finished processing the fact that he is gone. Then how would I process this one? I said to myself, “we should write about this.” Because I always write about the people I cannot speak to anymore. I write the things I never got to say. I form sentences because sometimes they feel like the closest thing to a conversation. But tonight, my mind is stuck in that strange little pause between remembering and accepting. Tonight, everything hurts a little more than I know how to say. And the words keep floating somewhere inside me, only to disappear again into the dark clouds of my mind. M. | August 2026

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It’s hard when someone asks, “What’s wrong?” and I genuinely don’t know how to answer. Because how do I explain that it isn’t one thing? It’s everything. The big things, the small things, the things I never found the words for, the things I thought I had already made peace with. All of it, somehow, finding its way back to me at once. And then there is the other question: “How come I never see you anymore?” I don’t know how to tell them that I keep myself busy because being busy makes everything hurt a little less. So I keep moving. I disappear a little. I fill the hours until there is barely any room left for the one thing I still don’t know how to say - “Something is wrong, and I don’t know what.” M. | August 2026

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But maybe that is the dangerous part of loving people. We begin to believe their presence is permanent simply because they have always been there. And lately, I've been thinking about the people I have tried to reach but couldn't quite find my way back to. The people who remain somewhere in my heart, even when we no longer know how to be in each other's lives. Perhaps this is what growing older teaches us, that not every relationship will be saved. The sibling we no longer speak to. A friend we keep meaning to call. Someone we love, but somewhere along the way, we simply drift apart. We live as though there will always be another chance. Another birthday. Another visit home. Another “I miss you.” Another opportunity to say, “I'm sorry we let so much time pass.” We tell ourselves there is still time. We assume there will be time to mend things. Time to try again. Until one day, there isn't. Still, I don't think this means we should spend our lives chasing people who have chosen to walk away. I've tried that. And sadly, I learned that sometimes, you can reach out with all the love you have and still be left holding your own hand. Yet while there is still time, we can choose to knock. And when we have knocked enough, perhaps we can leave the door unlocked and make peace with the fact that the rest was never ours to decide. All we can do is make sure we have said what needed to be said while we still had the chance. Because none of us knows which goodbye will be the last one we never got to say. M. | August 2026

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“I cannot make everyone okay.” I keep saying this to myself, again and again. I have been home to so many people, learning to leave the light on, to keep the door open, to make room for everyone who needed somewhere to rest. All the while, quietly knowing where my own heart longs to be. I was always a rebel, the girl who trusted her heart more than the world around her. Then life happened, and somewhere along the way, I learned to put everyone else before myself. And now I am here, not knowing how to leave without hurting someone, and not knowing how to stay without hurting myself. But how long can I keep turning away from the place my heart keeps calling home? And somewhere beneath all this love, all this guilt, all this choosing, there is still a little girl asking the question she has been too afraid to ask: “When do I get to go home, Mom?” M. | August 2026

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You’ll be okay, you know. One day, you’ll learn all the words for what happened to us. You’ll understand why you were always tired. Why you flinched at kindness. Why trusting people felt like handing someone instructions on how to hurt you. You’ll spend years learning how to live with the things you cannot change. You’ll learn that healing does not mean forgetting. That surviving does not mean it didn’t hurt. That some wounds take years before you can finally call them by their names. And one day, you’ll look back at the girl you were and understand that she was never too sensitive, too difficult, or too broken. She was simply trying to make it through. And this is what I want to tell you the most- “You were doing the best you could with what you knew. And you were always worth saving.” M. | August 2026

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