I Resign From Being Fine

Dear Life,

You win. I’m done pretending I’m fine.

No dramatic outbursts this time, no shouting into the void. Just this: I’m tired. I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach. My soul feels like it’s been walking barefoot across glass for years, and every polite smile I offer feels like a betrayal to what I really carry inside. So here it is my formal resignation from being okay.

I resign from small talk. I resign from smiling on command. I resign from pretending that your twisted rules make any sense. I resign from silently nodding while people dissect pain like it's a puzzle, something to be figured out and put away.

I’m not broken. I’m just not pretending anymore.

You see, there was a time I genuinely believed doing the right thing would shield me. That if I showed up for people, life would show up for me. If I worked hard, stayed humble, made sacrifices, the universe would reward me. But turns out, the universe isn’t handing out medals. It's throwing punches in the dark, and I got tired of flinching.

You gave me grief wrapped in a phone call. Ten minutes past six in the morning, while I was buttering toast for my kids. A single sentence and my entire world changed. You took someone I wasn't ready to let go of
and now every moment since has felt like a bad rerun of a show I never wanted to star in.

Still, I tried. I kept playing the character
strong, composed, responsible. I made the calls. I planned the goodbye. I even laughed at the right moments to make others feel less awkward. But inside, a quiet part of me died too. And I've been carrying that silence ever since, like a second skin.

So I quit.

I quit pretending I’m healing just because time is passing. I quit performing the ritual of “moving on” just so everyone around me feels comfortable. Healing isn’t linear, and it sure as hell isn’t pretty. Some days I get up and breathe like it’s war. Some nights I talk to the air, hoping it echoes her voice back. Most days, I feel like I’m cheating grief by showing up to work, packing lunches, laughing at dumb jokes, or simply functioning.

You know what else I resign from?

The guilt.

Guilt for not calling enough. Guilt for arguing that one time. Guilt for surviving. I’ve turned those moments over in my mind like worn-out cassette tapes, hoping if I replay them just right, I’ll find a way to rewrite the ending.

But I can’t. And I won’t anymore.

Also, dear Society, you can keep your judgments. I’m not interested in your approval ratings. Your version of “success” feels like a golden cage, and I’ve spent too many years decorating it like home. I’m tired of fitting in spaces that shrink me. I’m tired of saying the “right” things while screaming the truth inside my skull.

If that makes me selfish, so be it.

This is not a goodbye letter. It’s not a cry for help. It’s a quiet rebellion a middle finger wrapped in vulnerability. I’m not checking out, I’m checking in with myself. With my pain. With the version of me who still believes in joy, even if she’s buried beneath all this sorrow.

I’ll probably be back in a few weeks, acting like I didn’t write this. I’ll laugh at someone’s stupid meme, forget to wear socks, cry during commercials, and maybe even feel alive for a second. That’s the thing about us “resigners” we always come back. Because deep down, hope has a stubborn way of surviving, even when we don’t want it to.

But for now, I’m stepping away from the performance.

Don’t ask me to smile. Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Don’t invite me to talk about it, unless you’re okay with silence as the main guest.

Let me sit in the mess for a while. Let me mourn without fixing. Let me scream without explaining. I don’t need solutions I need space. I don’t need your light I need you to sit with me in the dark.

So here it is my resignation letter from pretending I’m okay.

Sincerely,
Someone who’s finally being honest

Thank you for reading!😘