The weight no one saw

I have been carrying this for too long. Way too long. Five years of knowing. But even before that? Years and years of something unnamed, something that weighed on me before I even understood what it was. I always thought it was just me, that maybe I was just weak, too sensitive, too much.

And now? Now even my doctor confirms it. That this has been going on for too long. That this isn’t something new, not just a passing phase—it’s been there, lingering, shaping me in ways I never realized. And I can’t even argue. Because deep down, I already knew.

But it’s not just the years that were lost. It’s the way they left their mark on me. The way they shaped my relationships, the way they distorted my idea of love, the way they made me believe that survival was enough—even when it left me feeling empty.

The relationships that took more than they gave. The expectations that pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe. The hopes that felt solid, only to crumble the moment I reached for them.

The people who left. The love that never quite felt real. The abandonment that made me question if I was ever enough to stay for.

The survival that should have been a victory, but instead, only left me lonelier. The sacrifices I made that no one even noticed.

I spent so much time trying to be good enough. Trying to be someone people would want to stay with, someone who deserved to be loved, someone who didn’t need to ask for anything. Because I thought that’s how it worked—if I was good enough, they would stay. If I was understanding enough, patient enough, strong enough, they would love me.

But they didn’t. Not really.

The expectations? They were never fair. People wanted me to be strong, to carry my own weight and sometimes theirs too. And I did. Over and over again. But did anyone ever stop and ask me if I was okay? Did anyone ever offer to carry something for me?

And when I started breaking? When I started slipping beneath the surface, drowning in my own exhaustion—where were they?

The hopes? I held onto them tightly, because what else was there? I built them carefully, piece by piece, convincing myself that maybe this time, things would be different. That maybe this time, I wouldn’t be left behind.

But hope is cruel when it’s built on things that were never meant to stay. And each time it fell apart, it took a piece of me with it.

And me? I got lost in all of it. In the constant cycle of holding on and letting go. In the exhaustion of being everything for everyone but never enough for myself.

And yet, despite it all, I survived.

But survival is lonely. What is the point of making it through the storm if there’s no one waiting on the other side? What is the point of carrying on when the weight only gets heavier, when the exhaustion never fully leaves?

And the sacrifice? The things I let go of, the things I gave up, the pieces of myself I handed over so easily—did it matter? Did anyone even notice?

Because that’s the part that hurts the most—not just the pain itself, but the silence that followed it. The way people moved on as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t given pieces of myself just to keep everything together.

And now, here I am. Sitting with this realization. Not angry, not even surprised—just… here. A little lost, a little tired, a little unsure of what to do with this weight now that I’ve named it.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if healing is even possible after carrying something for this long. But I do know this—I need to stop pretending it didn’t happen. I need to stop telling myself that it wasn’t that bad, that maybe I was just too weak to handle it.

Because it was real. It was always real. And maybe that’s the first step—just acknowledging it. Not fixing it, not rushing to move past it, just letting it exist. Letting myself exist, even in this in-between space, where I don’t quite know what’s next.

Maybe, for now, that’s enough.