the wars we wage in silence

invisible battles are the hardest to explain, because half the time we don’t have the language for them ourselves. they sit deep in the body, tucked under rib and memory, swelling in the quiet moments when no one is watching. it’s the kind of hurt that feels too small to justify and too big to carry. it’s the ache you wake up with before your eyes even open, the heaviness that sinks into your chest for no clear reason, the exhaustion that clings to your bones even after a full night’s sleep. these are the wars you fight while brushing your teeth, replying to messages, cooking dinner, pretending you’re fine because no one wants to know how close you are to unraveling. it’s the kind of struggle that whispers instead of screams, which somehow makes it hurt worse—because how do you ask for help for something you can’t even point to?

there is a violence to these quiet battles. not loud, not dramatic—slow, steady, grinding. a kind of erosion that hollows you out while you’re still smiling at people in grocery store lines. no one claps for you when you get out of bed even though it took everything in you. no one sees the way your hands shake when you’re trying to hold it together. no one notices when you stare too long at the wall because you’re trying to remember how to breathe. you learn to function with a storm inside you, to parent, to work, to love, to exist, all while carrying a weight that would break someone who hasn’t lived in the dark the way you have. you become skilled at hiding the cracks because you’ve been taught that people only want the polished version of you. so you shrink your pain, minimize it, swallow it whole, until it becomes another ghost inside your body.

but here’s the truth no one says out loud: these invisible battles are real. they count. they scar. they demand every ounce of your strength. surviving them is not small or simple. it takes a kind of courage that doesn’t get recognized, a kind of endurance that doesn’t get honored. and still, you show up. even when you’re aching. even when you’re numb. even when you feel like a house collapsing in slow motion. you keep moving. you keep trying. and that doesn’t make you weak—it makes you extraordinary.

if you’re carrying pain that no one sees, i hope you loosen your grip for a moment and let yourself be honest: it’s heavy. it’s exhausting. and you deserve space to say that without apologizing. you deserve softness, support, rest. you deserve to be held through the quiet parts, the trembling parts, the parts of you that feel too messy to expose. healing won’t come in a straight line. it won’t come all at once. it will come in tiny moments—when you breathe without forcing it, when you feel something other than fear or pressure, when you let yourself be human instead of invincible. you’re allowed to fall apart. you’re allowed to rebuild slowly. you’re allowed to take up space, even in your suffering.

and most of all—you’re allowed to still be here, fighting battles no one sees, and call that bravery. because that’s exactly what it is.

with ink & bloom, 🌻