The Day I Almost Gave Up — and Why I Didn’t

The Day I Almost Gave Up — and Why I Didn’t

It started as just another morning.
by[Rehan khan]
The sun rose like it always did, soft and golden, slipping through the blinds in lines that cut across my bed. But I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything, really. Not the warmth of the sunlight, not the cool of the pillow under my face, not even the rhythm of my own breathing.

I stared at the ceiling for what could’ve been minutes or hours. Time had lost meaning a long time ago.

On that day — the day I almost gave up — I didn’t have a grand tragedy to point to. No dramatic betrayal, no explosion of loss. Just… the slow, silent erosion of myself.

It had been building for months. Maybe years. One disappointment after another. Rejections that chipped away at my confidence. Dreams that stayed dreams. Friendships that faded. The endless ache of trying and not seeing results. Of always being the strong one. The reliable one. The one who "has it all together." And inside, I was quietly unraveling.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, and thinking, This is it. I don’t have anything left.
I didn’t know what “giving up” even meant in that moment. I just knew I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted the noise in my head — the doubt, the fear, the shame — to just go quiet. I wanted rest.

Not sleep.
Not peace.
Just nothing.

I walked to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. My reflection didn’t look like me. My eyes were hollow. My skin dull. I looked like a ghost of the person I used to be.

That’s when the thought crept in: What if I just disappear for a while? No phone. No messages. No explanations. Just… gone.
And then another voice answered: Would anyone even notice?

That voice — the cruel one, the liar — had been getting louder for weeks. Maybe it had always been there, hiding behind polite smiles and automatic “I’m fine”s. But that morning, it shouted.

I sat on the cold tile floor. My back against the bathtub. My arms wrapped around my knees. And I cried. Not a loud, dramatic sob. Just tears that slipped silently down my face as I sat in stillness.

That’s when something strange happened.

My phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again.

Frustrated, I reached for it — ready to turn it off — but I saw a name on the screen that made me pause: Mom.

I opened the message. It was simple.

“Hey. I don’t know why, but I just wanted to tell you I love you. You’re strong, even when you don’t feel like it. Okay?”

That was it. Just that.

And I broke.

Not in a way that destroyed me. But in a way that reminded me I wasn’t alone.

Because somehow, some way, at that very moment when I was unraveling, the universe — or love, or fate, or God, or something — sent me a thread to hold onto.

That message wasn’t magic. It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded me that someone saw me. That I mattered to someone. That I didn’t have to carry the weight of everything in silence.

I didn’t reply right away. I couldn’t. But I got off the floor. I brushed my teeth. I opened a window. I made coffee. Small things, but they felt like acts of rebellion against the voice that told me to disappear.

I didn’t tell anyone what happened that day for a long time. I wore my mask like I always did. But I started going to therapy. I began writing again — not for likes or applause, but for myself. To process. To breathe.

And now, looking back, I realize something important:

The day I almost gave up wasn't a sign of weakness.

It was a moment of breaking — yes — but also a moment of choosing.

I didn’t choose to keep going because I was brave. I didn’t even believe in myself yet. I kept going because of a tiny moment of grace. A text. A lifeline.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

So if you’re there now — sitting on your own cold floor, wondering if anyone sees you — let me be that message for you.

I see you.

You matter.

You are not alone.

And no matter how heavy it feels, hold on. Even if it’s just by your fingernails.
Because tomorrow may bring sunlight that you finally feel again.
And that’s worth staying for.