Entry Six

Dear diary,

There is a kind of pain that doesn't scream. 

It doesn't lash out,

It cowers.

Tucked away in the deep, dark corners,

In the safety of the abyss.

It's a quiet pain,

Sacred, I'd say.

It wears the face of patience,

Masked by softness.

It looks like composure in the midst of chaos,

Maturity, they call it.

It looks like silent tears in the dark hours,

Murmurs filled with endless whys.

It's a pain that stems from choosing to be better, 

To do better.

To love deeply.

To try.

Not because anyone asks you to, 

but because something in you refuses to let go,

To let go of people,

Of situations,

Of what was.

Emotional loneliness wrapped in love.

It's a pain that moves with a calmness so soft,

An understanding too deep,

An anger subdued.

It comes from looking at things through different lenses.

From feeling too much.

From thinking... always thinking... 

Overthinking

From overcaring,

From overexplaining.

A constant cycle of trying,

And trying, 

And trying...

And it's heavy—

To be the one always cleaning up the mess,

But never the one allowed to fall apart. 

The one who reflects, who grows,

who apologizes first even when it's not your fault,

The one who stays steady,

even when you're being taken for granted.

The one who gives second, third... endless chances

The one always trying to be better,

For people who won't meet you halfway. 

Regardless,

You show up.

Even when you're hurt.

Even when you're overlooked.

Even in the chaos that is life.

Even when you're the only one still trying.

You. Show. Up.

You hold it in,

You keep telling yourself "Be better, kinder, stronger."

And in doing so,

You make excuses,

for people who never seem to change,

While you keep changing to protect everyone but yourself.

And that’s the part that breaks you.

That damages the safest, softest parts of you.

Not the disappointment.

Not the silence.

Not even the pain.

It’s the fact that you kept showing up,

When they never did.

That you kept trying,

When they were unbothered.

That you cared,

When they simply... couldn't.

And sometimes,

Trying feels like begging.

Begging to be seen,

To be known.

To be heard.

To be acknowledged.

Begging for someone to care enough to give something back

To treat you like a human being, with limits.

A human being who also deserves grace.

Who deserves to matter, always,

Not just when they lose the version of you they took for granted.

But that doesn't happen.

And maybe, it never will.

And that used to break me,

The imbalance.

I questioned my worth,

Mistook my empathy and understanding, 

For weakness.

Thought that loving deeply meant losing myself.

But slowly, 

I’ve started to see things differently.

Grace is not transcational,

And it shouldn't be.

Grace is a part of you,

The part that chooses to recognize the frailty of humans, 

That we are imperfect,

That we make mistakes,

That we are learning and growing.

Grace doesn't have to feel like an emotional burnout disguised as kindness.

It can be a quiet strength,

A boundary drawn with love,

A soft no that honors both.

It can be stillness without guilt,

Forgiveness without self-erasure,

Presence without depletion.

Peace.

Grace is how I stay whole.

It is a reflection of Christ in me.

A part of me that acknowledges God's grace.

That I can choose to be kinder, 

To care,

To love.

Because I know how it feels to be on the receiving end.

And its okay,

If its not returned,

It's how I choose to live,

And that won't change.

 

Goodbye for now...