Writers 
I was tired of being brave.
Tired of saying,
“I can handle it,”
when all I wanted
was somewhere safe to fall.
I became good at smiling
through things I could not explain,
good at saying “I’m okay”
before anyone could ask
if I really was.
Nobody saw
how many times
I rebuilt myself
in the quiet.
How many nights
I stared at the ceiling,
wondering if tomorrow
would finally feel lighter.
I watched people move forward
while I stood still,
holding dreams
that seemed to grow heavier
with every passing day.
I wanted to stop pretending
that I was never afraid.
Because I was.
I was afraid of failing.
Afraid of being forgotten.
Afraid that all my effort
would lead nowhere.
And sometimes,
I was simply tired.
Not lazy.
Not weak.
Just tired.
Tired of starting over.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of being strong
when nobody asked
how much strength it took.
But somewhere between
the tears and the silence,
I discovered something:
Being brave
does not always mean
fighting another battle.
Sometimes,
bravery is resting.
Sometimes,
it is admitting
that you need help.
Sometimes,
it is waking up the next morning
with no answers
and choosing to try again anyway.
So I stopped asking myself
to be strong every minute.
I gave myself permission
to breathe.
To pause.
To be human.
And slowly,
I understood—
I did not need
to be fearless
to keep going.
I only needed
enough hope
for one more step.
And today,
one more step
is enough.
