The Day I Didn't Shatter

There was no blood. No scream. No final straw.

Just a Tuesday morning and the weight of being alive.

The coffee went cold while I stared out the window,

waiting for a sign that never came.

My body ached in its usual places.

The mirror didn’t lie, but it didn’t say much either.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t pray.

I didn’t break anything.

I just sat in the quiet, waiting for the hurt to shift.

It didn’t.

But still —

I brushed my hair.

I answered one message.

I watered a plant that I had half-forgotten.

I didn’t call that healing.

I didn’t call it brave.

But I think now, maybe it was.

Because everything inside me said:

curl up,

shut down,

fade out.

And I didn’t.

I moved like someone underwater.

I moved like it mattered.

I moved like it hurt,

but I moved.

And that day, I didn’t shatter.

Not because I was strong.

Not because it didn’t still ache.

But because some quiet part of me

refused to vanish.

Because I’m tired of disappearing in pieces.

Because maybe I’m allowed to stay.

Because maybe surviving doesn’t need a soundtrack —

maybe it’s just one breath

and then another

and then another.

Maybe you’ve felt it too.

The almost-collapse.

The nothing-is-technically-wrong-but-everything-feels-wrong days.

The weight of the world on your ribs,

and still, the email gets sent.

Still, the dishes get done.

Still, you stay.

And I think that matters.

I think that counts.

Because some days, survival looks like fire.

But some days, it looks like showing up

to the life you didn’t choose

with the heart that still hopes for more.

So if you’re here,

if you’re breathing,

if you did one small thing today,

this is for you.

You didn’t shatter.

And neither did I.

We’re still here.

And that’s something.

Maybe it’s everything.

Some days don’t fall into any category. They’re not dramatic enough to be breakdowns, not productive enough to be recoveries. They don’t offer insight, closure, or any clear turning point. They just come and go, and you survive them without really understanding how.

That’s where this poem came from. Not from a place of crisis, exactly — but from the slower ache that settles in after the emergency ends and real-life picks back up. I had been going through the motions for weeks. Doing what needed to be done. Taking care of everyone else. Forgetting, as usual, to take care of myself in ways that actually mattered.

That morning, I sat in silence for longer than I should have. The coffee went cold. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t pray. I just waited for the hurt to change shape. It didn’t. But I moved anyway. I responded to one message. I watered a plant. I brushed my hair, even though no one was going to see me. And something about those small gestures felt quietly defiant.

I didn’t call it brave at the time, and I still wouldn’t. But I think now that it mattered. Not because it was beautiful or poetic or transformative. But because I didn’t disappear. I stayed.

Most of the writing I see about survival tends to frame it as something powerful and clean — something that lifts you or hardens you or makes you stronger. But for me, it often looks like that day. Dull. Tiring. Uneventful. And real.

I wanted to write this down for anyone else who’s had those almost-invisible days. The kind where nothing goes wrong, but everything still feels heavy. Where you show up to a life that doesn’t quite fit, and you keep going anyway.

If that’s you, I want you to know it counts. You count.

There is something in you that keeps refusing to vanish. And maybe that’s not just survival. Maybe that’s the beginning of staying.