A Childhood Loss

This morning, I couldn’t get out of bed.

Sometimes, the heaviness settles on me so completely that even breathing feels like a conscious effort. Today was one of those days. I lay there for what felt like hours, staring blankly at the ceiling as the sunlight crept through the blinds in soft, fractured lines. The world outside was awake and alive—cars hummed in the distance, birds sang faintly from some hidden perch, and I imagined people rushing about their mornings with purpose. But I felt miles away from all of it, like I was sealed behind glass, watching life move on without me. The thought of standing up, of pretending to be “okay,” was too much. It was easier to sink deeper into the mattress, letting its weight cradle me while my own thoughts dragged me further under.

My mind wandered, as it often does in moments like this. I thought about all the different ways my life could have unfolded. Each memory flickered in my head like an old film reel—moments of choice, crossroads I’d stumbled through, words I’d said and wished I hadn’t. Sometimes I feel haunted, not by ghosts, but by all the versions of myself that could have been. I see the girl I could have been if I’d spoken up when I was too afraid, or stayed silent when my words caused harm. I see the woman I might have become if I’d taken a risk instead of retreating, or if I’d loved myself enough to fight for what I truly wanted. These alternate lives feel so close, like shadows brushing against me, yet I can never reach them.

Then there’s the mirror—though I’ve learned to avoid it. It’s not just my reflection that unsettles me, but the way I see myself even without glass. I’ve built this image of me out of insecurities, shame, and constant self-criticism. I pick myself apart without thinking, reducing myself to a long list of shortcomings: not enough, not successful enough, not beautiful enough, not worthy enough. The tearing down has become second nature, like a language I’ve spoken for so long I can’t remember when I learned it.

The cruelest part is that I’m always trying to put myself back together, but I don’t even know who I’m rebuilding. I picture myself as a shattered vase, shards of me scattered across the floor. Each time I try to glue the pieces back, I realize I’m assembling a stranger—the version of me I think other people want. Someone softer, smaller, easier to accept. And it’s exhausting, wearing masks that never quite fit, twisting myself into shapes that please others while losing sight of my own outline.

Some days, I think back to when I was younger, before I carried this heaviness. I see myself as a child, laughing loudly, unafraid of taking up space, and believing I was destined for something magical. I miss her—the fearless girl who didn’t yet know the taste of shame. She feels so far away now, like a ghost that flickers at the edge of my memory, but I wonder if she’s still there, buried beneath all the self-doubt. Maybe she’s waiting for me to dig through the rubble and find her again.

Even now, lying in bed with the weight of my thoughts pressing me down, I can feel a flicker of something small but stubborn inside me. Hope, maybe. Or maybe it’s just defiance, a refusal to let this darkness swallow me completely. Either way, it’s something. And maybe for now, that’s enough.

I’m still here. Even if all I managed to do today was breathe, I am here. Survival, in its simplest form, is still a kind of strength. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the energy to stand up, to pull back the curtains and let the sunlight warm my face. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take a step closer to that younger version of me, the one who believed in something better.

But today, I’ll let myself rest. I’ll let myself simply exist, without expectation or shame. Because healing, I’m learning, is slow and quiet, built from moments like this—moments where I give myself permission to be broken and still worthy of love.

And maybe, with time, I’ll find my way back to myself again.