The Nights I Couldn't Say What I Was Carrying

There's a specific kind of tired that comes from carrying something you've never said out loud. Not the tired that sleep fixes — the kind that sits behind your eyes during a normal Tuesday, while you're making dinner or sitting in traffic, because some part of you is always holding something back.

For a long time I thought staying quiet about it was the strong thing to do. Like if I just didn't say it, it would stop being true, or at least stop being so heavy. It doesn't work that way. The stuff you don't say doesn't disappear — it just moves. It shows up as a short temper, or a wall you didn't mean to build, or a 2 a.m. wide-awake staring at the ceiling.

The first night I actually wrote it down — not to anyone, not for anyone to read, just onto a page — something in my chest loosened that I didn't even know was tight...