What the Moon Told My Brokenness

There was a night when I could no longer hold the weight of my own silence.
It was the kind of stillness that presses against your chest, where even breathing feels like confession. I sat by my window, the world outside washed in silver, and the moon hung there — round, distant, and unbothered by all the things that had unraveled inside me.

For a long time, I said nothing.
And for a long time, the moon simply listened.

I told her I was tired.
Tired of being brave. Tired of pretending the ache in my chest was poetry instead of exhaustion. Tired of telling people I was fine when fine had become a fragile disguise.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t turn away. The light just lingered, soft and unjudging, like the gentlest kind of understanding.

“I don’t know how to be whole again,” I whispered.
And in the silence that followed, I swear she leaned closer.

She said — not in words, but in a quiet knowing — You don’t have to be.

I looked up, startled by how much truth could fit in a sentence without sound.

The moon told me that broken things are not failures — they are simply stories that have learned to breathe differently. She said that even her own face is marked with craters, that she too carries the scars of her making. And still, every night, the world looks up and calls her beautiful.

That night I realized: maybe healing isn’t about returning to what I was. Maybe it’s about learning to live softly inside what remains.

The moon told me that pain doesn’t always ask to be solved — sometimes it just asks to be seen.
She said that when the ocean pulls at her, she does not fight back; she simply rises and falls. There is a rhythm to surrender that the heart must learn, a way of trusting the tide even when it feels like drowning.

I asked her how she could be so steady, so endlessly present while the world below her changed and broke and healed again.
She told me, Because I am never truly alone. Even when the sky is dark, the sun still holds me from behind.

And I thought about the people who have held me, even when I could not meet their eyes.
The ones who stayed, who didn’t ask me to explain my sadness — just sat beside it.
The ones who looked at my cracks and didn’t flinch.

Maybe that’s what light is — not the absence of shadow, but the courage to exist alongside it.

The moon asked me what I would do with all that I’d lost.
I didn’t have an answer.
So she told me this: Loss is not the end of love. It’s the proof that you’ve been changed by it.

And I cried. Not the kind of crying that begs to be fixed, but the kind that quietly thanks the world for still holding you while you fall apart.

The moon said she has watched countless people whisper their grief into the dark — and every time, the dawn still comes.
Not as a promise that everything will be okay, but as a reminder that even endings can be gentle.

When she began to fade behind the clouds, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time — not happiness, not even hope, but peace.
A soft exhale.
A small mercy.

Before she disappeared completely, she left me with one last thought:

You were never meant to shine without your shadows.

And that night, for the first time in months, I slept — not because I was healed, but because I no longer needed to be.