My painful truth

My heart breaks when I think about the future for me that lies ahead. Each day feels like a battle I wasn’t equipped to fight, and I grieve, deeply, for the life I wish I could live. It’s a grief that lingers, heavy and persistent, whispering the same painful truths over and over: I am tired. I am alone.

If people could live just one day in my shoes, maybe they’d understand. Maybe they wouldn’t rush to offer empty words of sympathy or well-meaning but distant comments about how strong I am. Maybe they’d see how isolating it is to fight battles that no one else sees, how exhausting it is to carry a weight that feels unbearable most days. Maybe—just maybe—they’d stop offering words and start offering help.

What I need is a village. What I’ve always needed is a village. But a village is something I’ve gone without my entire life. I carry this darkness alone, a weight pressing so heavily on my shoulders that I’m not sure I can carry it anymore. The fight in me weakens with each passing day.

I don’t need kind words about how resilient I am. I don’t need sympathetic head tilts paired with “I don’t know how you do it.” I know how strong I am, I’ve had no choice but to be strong. I don’t need to hear how sorry people are for what I endure. What I need is help. What I need are systems that don’t fail at every turn. What I need is a break—a real break—from the painful reality I wake up to every single day.

I try so hard to be positive. I try to hold onto hope. But my cup of optimism is running on empty, and I don’t know how to refill it anymore.

This isn’t what life is supposed to be like. It shouldn’t be this heavy, this lonely, this impossible. And yet, this is where I am. Fighting a fight that no one else can see, holding on even as my grip loosens.

So I write these words not for pity or praise, but for something deeper. To be seen. To be heard. And maybe—just maybe—to be reminded that even in the absence of a village, I am still here. For now.

Xo,

Amy