This is not a death wish.

I don’t want to die.

Let me say that first

before anyone twists my silence into a conclusion.

I don’t want to die…

I just don’t know how to keep living

when every day feels like dragging a soul

through wet concrete…

while the world keeps yelling

“You’re strong, you’ll be fine.”

Fine is a lie I wear well.

It fits over bruises no one asks about.

I wake up already tired.

Not sleepy…

Tired, like my bones remember things

my mouth won’t say anymore.

Tired like breathing feels borrowed

and I’m scared of the interest.

I don’t fantasize about disappearing…

I fantasize about relief.

About quiet.

About a moment where my chest

isn’t a clenched fist

holding everything together

by force alone.

People think wanting rest

means wanting death.

No.

I want the pain to stop talking so loudly.

I want my nervous system

to stop screaming fire

in a house that’s already burned down.

Some days I survive out of principle.

Out of habit.

Out of love for people who don’t know

how close I get to the edge

without ever wanting to jump.

I’m not suicidal…

I’m exhausted.

There’s a difference

and it deserves a name.

I don’t want to die.

I want living to stop feeling like

a punishment I have to earn my way out of.

I want softness without guilt.

I want hope that doesn’t feel like a chore.

So if you see me quiet,

if you see me slow,

if you see me breaking in ways

that don’t look dramatic enough to save.

Understand this…

I am still choosing to stay.

Even when staying hurts.

Even when it’s getting harder to live.

And that choice…

that stubborn, shaking choice…

is its own kind of bravery.

I don’t want to die.

I need that said again,

because sometimes pain rewrites the story,

before I get the chance to speak.

I am pushing through my life

the way someone pushes through deep water…

not gracefully,

not quietly,

but with intention.

With lungs burning.

With eyes fixed on a shore

I’m not even sure exists yet,

just believing it has to.

I wake up every day

and negotiate with my body.

With my mind.

With pain that doesn’t knock…

it moves in, rearranges the furniture,

and dares me to call it temporary.

There is physical pain

that bends me without permission,

and mental pain

that never lets me forget it was there first.

Some days I manage it.

Some days it manages me.

And none of it is easy to witness…

especially for the people who love me.

I see the worry in their eyes.

I hear the pauses in their voices

when they don’t know what to say anymore.

I know my health has weight.

I know it takes up space

in rooms where joy is trying to sit down.

That knowledge hurts

in ways painkillers don’t touch.

Because I don’t want to be

the hardest part of someone else’s day.

I don’t want my name

to come with a sigh of concern.

I don’t want to feel like

love has to work overtime

just to keep me included.

I know watching me struggle

is its own kind of suffering.

I know loving me means

loving uncertainty.

And that kind of love

requires stamina

no one trains for.

Still…

I am here.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because I am hoping.

Hoping that one day

my body won’t feel like an argument.

That my mind will rest

without rehearsing worst-case scenarios.

That living won’t feel like

a full-time job with no sick days.

I am pushing forward

for the version of me

who laughs without calculating the cost.

For the future where pain is quieter.

For the possibility

that “easier” isn’t a myth…

just delayed.

What scares me most

is not the pain itself,

but the thought of being abandoned by love

because I asked it to stay too long.

I don’t want my family

to give up on me.

I don’t want to feel like

their hope has an expiration date.

I don’t want my illness

to speak louder than my heart.

I want my love to be enough

to cover their doubts.

I want them to know

that even when I am weak,

I am still choosing them.

Still loving them

through clenched teeth

and quiet tears.

And, I need their love

to be enough to make them stay…

not out of obligation,

not out of guilt,

but because they believe

this version of me

is still worth walking beside.

I am not asking for miracles.

Just patience.

Just faith that I am more

than my hardest days.

I don’t want to die.

I want time

to catch up to my effort.

I want healing

to meet me halfway.

I want proof

that pushing through

wasn’t pointless.

So if I keep going,

even when it’s ugly,

even when I’m quiet,

even when I need more than I give…

know this:

I am not giving up.

I am enduring.

And that endurance

is an act of love

for everyone I’m still here for…

including myself.