"Ten Days to Heal a Broken Soul"

Ten Days to Heal a Broken Soul

Day 2: Numb But Still Breathing

When the world keeps moving but you can’t

By Usama Khan

There’s a strange kind of pain that doesn’t cry. It doesn’t scream or beg to be seen. It just… sits there. Heavy. Still. Quiet. Like fog on your chest, or hands around your throat that don’t squeeze, just rest there—reminding you that you're not really free.

That’s what numbness feels like.

After Day 1—after the moment I broke—I expected everything to change. I thought tears would cleanse me, that writing down my pain would unchain something deep inside. I thought admitting I was hurt would bring me some kind of peace. But instead, I woke up the next morning… flat. Like I wasn’t even inside my own body.

I brushed my teeth. Made toast. Checked my phone. Scrolled past news, photos, people laughing, people living—and felt nothing.

Not sadness. Not anger. Not even hope.

Just numb.

It’s a cruel kind of emptiness. Because on the outside, you seem fine. People see you walking down the street, replying to texts, making jokes. But inside, there’s no fire. No pulse. Just a quiet ache that says, “Keep going. You’re not allowed to stop.”

But I wanted to stop. Not stop life, but stop pretending. Stop pushing through like I wasn’t falling apart behind every “I’m fine.” I sat on the train that day, headphones in, eyes blank, surrounded by people rushing to work, texting, laughing, calling. The world kept spinning—but I felt frozen in time.

And the worst part? I didn’t even care.

That’s what numbness steals from you: not your breath, but your will. It doesn’t kill you; it drains you slowly, until even smiling feels like acting. Until the things you used to love—music, sunlight, coffee, people—just feel like background noise in a movie you’re not even watching anymore.

I remember staring at my reflection in the subway window. Not judging, not crying. Just... observing. Like I was a stranger in my own skin.

I wanted someone to notice. To ask what was really going on. But no one did. Not because they didn’t care—because I was too good at hiding. Too good at pretending I was functioning. And society loves that, doesn’t it? We praise the ones who “keep it together.” Who go to work after a breakup. Who smile after loss. Who get up and push forward, no matter what.

But pushing forward without feeling isn’t strength. It’s survival. And survival is not the same as healing.

That’s when I realized something important:

Numbness is not a weakness—it’s a sign. A signal from your body, your soul, that you’ve been carrying too much for too long. It’s your mind saying, “If I let you feel everything right now, it might break you again.” So instead, it wraps your pain in silence. Protects you from yourself. Not forever—but just long enough to catch your breath.

So I let myself be numb.

I stopped forcing myself to feel better. I stopped reading toxic positivity posts that said, “Just smile!” or “Gratitude will fix everything.” No. Not today. That kind of pressure was another form of pain.

Instead, I chose to sit with the numbness. I accepted it like an old friend, like a scar I didn’t need to hide. And slowly—so slowly—I felt something shift. A flicker of emotion. Not joy, not peace, but something real: exhaustion. And even that was better than emptiness. Because it meant I was still alive inside.

To whoever is reading this:

If you’re numb right now, if the world feels like it’s racing past while you sit in slow motion—please know, you are not broken. You are protecting yourself. You’re not failing. You’re healing, in the quietest way possible.

You don’t have to force a smile today. You don’t have to be okay.

Just breathe. Just exist.

That’s enough.

You are enough.

NOTE:To Be Continued: Day 3 — "Letters I Never Sent"

To the one who hurt me — and the one who saved me.