The Days I Didn’t Give Up

I never thought survival would be so silent.

There were no loud cries. No dramatic breakdowns. Just quiet mornings where I sat on the edge of my bed, wondering if I had the strength to stand up. Just long nights where I stared at the ceiling and begged the darkness to be kind. Just ordinary days where I showed up to life even though every part of me wanted to disappear.

No one saw the battles I fought. And maybe that’s why I thought they didn’t count.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d ever feel broken. I was the strong one. The helper. The listener. The person who always had advice and a smile. I kept everything together—until life slowly pulled everything apart.

It wasn’t one big thing. That’s what made it harder to explain.

It was small things—rejections, losses, disappointments—that piled up like bricks on my chest. My father lost his job. My younger sister was diagnosed with an illness that drained our home of peace. My closest friend moved away. And I—once full of ambition—failed two exams back to back and lost my scholarship.

I didn’t even tell anyone. What would I say? “Hi, I feel like I’m sinking”?

I just got quieter. Numb. Smiled when expected. Nodded when spoken to. Inside, I was unraveling.

But I didn’t give up.

I still don’t know exactly why. Some days, it was the smallest thing: my mom’s voice through the door asking, “Did you eat?” Or the neighbor’s cat rubbing against my leg when I went out for a walk I didn’t want to take. Or a message from a stranger online who shared their own pain and made me feel less alone.

Some days, I got out of bed just to brush my teeth. And that was it.

Some days, I walked to the store without buying anything—just to say I had left the house.

Some days, I journaled one sentence: “Today hurt, but I’m still here.”

And that counted too.

I remember one night, I broke down while washing dishes. Something about the water hitting the plate triggered it. I sank to the kitchen floor and cried until my chest ached. I wasn’t even crying for one reason—I was crying because it all felt too much, and because no one knew how hard I was trying.

That night changed something.

It didn’t fix me.

But it made me realize: I’m still here. And that must mean something.

From that point, I started choosing small steps. I made a promise to myself:

You don’t have to win today. You just have to survive it.

And slowly, the quiet strength I didn’t even know I had began to rise.

I reached out to my university advisor and explained what happened. She listened. She didn’t judge. We made a plan. I started therapy—not because I was weak, but because I was finally brave enough to ask for help.

I began taking evening walks. Just ten minutes at first. Then twenty. Then I found a little notebook and began writing every day, three things I had done, no matter how small:

Ate a real meal.

Talked to a friend.

Didn’t cancel my appointment.

The list grew. And so did I.

Now, a year later, I don’t recognize that version of me—the one who thought she was invisible, broken, and weak. But I remember her. I remember her strength, because she is the reason I am still here.

People see me now—working again, smiling more, reaching out to others—and they say, “You’re so strong.”

But they don’t know the truth.

My strength wasn’t loud. It didn’t roar.

It was quiet, steady, and unseen.

It lived in the days I didn’t give up.

The days I sat in silence and chose to try again.

The days I held back tears until I was alone.

The days I told myself: “One more step. Just one.”

That was strength. That was survival.

And that is my story.