“I Named My Pain—and It Let Me Go”

I carried it for years—

a nameless thing,

a shadow stitched to my spine

with thread spun from silence.

It was there in the pauses

between someone asking, “How are you?”

and me answering, “I’m fine.”

It was in the hollow behind my smile,

the ache beneath my ribs

when the world was too loud,

and I was too quiet.

I didn’t know when it came,

only that it stayed.

A ghost with no face,

but heavy hands that pressed on my chest

every night before sleep.

They say naming is power.

That to give something a name

is to strip it of its mystery,

to hold it still long enough

to breathe without fear.

But how do you name something

that speaks in sighs

and hides behind your laughter?

It wasn’t grief—not at first.

Grief has structure.

Grief has funerals and flowers and casseroles.

What I had was formless,

a silent scream,

a door I’d locked from the inside.

Was it heartbreak?

Possibly.

Or was it the echo of every time

I made myself small

to keep the peace?

Maybe it was shame.

The shame of never being enough.

Or of being too much.

Or of simply existing

without a map.

I tried to outrun it.

In loud cities, crowded rooms,

the bottom of a bottle,

and the arms of people

who didn’t know my name,

so they couldn’t use it against me.

But it followed.

Patient.

Like rain that soaks into your bones

until you no longer remember

what it feels like to be dry.

Then one day—

or maybe night,

time had blurred by then—

I found myself

sitting on the floor of my apartment,

barefoot,

breathless,

broken open.

Not from a tragedy.

Not from a wound.

But from the weight

of carrying something

I refused to speak.

And I whispered.

Not a scream. Not a roar.

Just a whisper.

One syllable.

One fragile sound.

And the pain stirred.

“I see you,”

I said.

At first, that’s all it took.

Not a name—yet.

Just acknowledgment.

Like saying to a shadow,

“I know you’re there.”

And the shadow softened.

I began tracing it.

Following the contours of its edges.

Where did it start?

What fed it?

Memories surfaced like bubbles

from a deep well.

The time they laughed

when I cried.

The silence that followed

every “No” I dared to say.

The pressure to succeed

because failure wasn’t an option.

Because love was conditional.

Because perfection was survival.

I wrote it down.

Page after page.

Until my hands cramped,

and my soul exhaled.

And in the ink,

I found names.

Not just one—

but many.

Guilt.

Abandonment.

Insecurity.

Rejection.

Self-hatred.

Each one like a child

I had left behind,

weeping in the dark.

I gathered them.

I held them.

And I named them.

Pain is not the enemy.

Silence is.

Pain unspoken festers,

but pain expressed—

pain heard—

becomes human again.

I took their names

and spoke them aloud.

Yes—out loud.

In my bedroom.

Alone.

The walls heard me.

The night did, too.

And something shifted.

The air got lighter.

My hands stopped trembling.

My body no longer curled

into itself for protection.

“I’m afraid of not being enough,”

I said.

“I’m still hurt from what she said.”

“I miss the father I never really had.”

“I hate that I still compare myself.”

“I hate that I learned to perform instead of feel.”

“I am grieving who I could’ve been

if I’d been loved without conditions.”

And then,

after the naming,

came the letting go.

Not all at once.

No dramatic departure.

Just… room.

Room for breath.

Room for silence

that didn’t echo with judgment.

Room for peace

to tiptoe in

and sit beside me

like an old friend

I had forgotten.

And in that peace,

I felt warmth.

Not happiness.

Not joy.

Something deeper.

Softer.

A forgiveness

that didn’t ask for permission.

I looked in the mirror

and didn’t flinch.

I saw the scars

and didn’t apologize.

I spoke to my reflection

as though she was a survivor—

because she was.

Healing doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it’s in the way

your shoulders stop aching

when no one’s watching.

Sometimes it’s how you finally sleep

without the weight of what-ifs.

Sometimes,

it’s how you finally cry

for the child you were—

and then smile for the person you’ve become.

I still have pain.

That’s the truth.

But it no longer drags me by the wrists.

I walk beside it now.

It doesn’t lead.

And it doesn’t define me.

Because I gave it a name.

And in doing so,

I gave myself

back to myself.

If you are reading this—

and your pain is still silent,

still unnamed,

still curled like smoke in your chest—

know this:

You are not broken.

You are carrying something

that wants to be seen.

Not judged.

Not fixed.

Just seen.

Name it.

Hold it.

Release it.

And watch how it lets you go.