A month of silence

 It’s been a month since I last wrote. A month of silence. A month of stillness. A month where I felt every passing day slip through my fingers, heavy with the weight of things unsaid, of thoughts unformed, of creativity left untouched. I wish I could say that time has passed quickly, but it hasn’t. It dragged. Every single day felt like I was sinking deeper into something I couldn’t name, something I couldn’t shake off, something that held me captive in my own mind.

I have always found comfort in words. In writing. In putting my emotions into something tangible, something outside of myself, as if that act alone would make them easier to carry. But this past month? I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength, the clarity, or the will to sit down and pour my thoughts onto a page. I tried, more times than I can count. I sat in front of blank screens, empty pages, and all I could do was stare, feeling the words swirl inside me like a storm with no direction, no form. It was like they were trapped somewhere deep inside, unreachable, and with every failed attempt, I sank a little further into myself, retreating, withdrawing, disappearing.

The truth is, this past month has been hard. Really hard. I’ve been dealing with so much—so many ups and downs, so many emotions I can’t seem to make sense of. I’ve been struggling with the weight of everything I want to do but can’t bring myself to start. I’ve been feeling stuck, caught between my desires and my inability to act on them. And the worst part? The longer this feeling lasted, the more impossible it became to break out of it. The more days that passed, the harder it was to find my way back to myself. It became easier to just not try.

I’ve been living in my head more than in the real world, and I don’t know if that’s a form of protection or just another way of making things worse. I dissociated from everything around me, from my projects, from my passions, from my words. I built walls in my mind, locked myself inside them, and convinced myself that I was safe there. But safety isn’t always peace. Sometimes, it’s just another kind of prison.

And now, sitting here, trying to write this, trying to put words to what I’ve been feeling, I realize how much I hate this version of myself. The version that’s paralyzed by her own thoughts, the version that lets time pass without fighting against the stillness, the version that watches life unfold and feels like an outsider to her own existence. I hate the way I’ve let myself down. I hate the way I’ve abandoned the things I love. And yet, I don’t know how to fix it.

I wish I could be the kind of person who pushes through. Who finds inspiration even in the darkest moments. Who never lets her passion fade, no matter how heavy life feels. But I’m not. I lose myself sometimes. I get overwhelmed. I get stuck. And right now, I feel like I’m drowning in all the things I should be doing, all the things I want to be doing, but can’t seem to start.

All my projects are on hold. My ideas, my dreams, my plans—they’re just there, untouched, waiting for me to have the strength to breathe life into them again. And I hate that I keep telling myself, tomorrow, I’ll try. And then tomorrow comes, and I don’t. And the cycle continues.

More than anything, I feel disappointed in myself. Disappointed that I let this feeling win. Disappointed that I didn’t fight harder. Disappointed that I let time pass in silence. But as much as I hate it, I know I can’t change what’s already happened. I can’t go back and undo the days I lost, the words I didn’t write, the moments I let slip away. All I can do is try—step by step, day by day—to find my way back.

I don’t know when I’ll feel like myself again. I don’t know when my words will come easily, when my creativity will flow the way it used to, when I’ll feel alive again instead of just existing. But I have to believe that this isn’t forever. That this darkness isn’t permanent. That even if I don’t feel it now, there will come a day when I wake up and want to write again. When I want to create. When I feel something other than exhaustion and disappointment.

For now, I’m just holding onto hope. Hope that even if I’m not okay now, I will be. Hope that even if this moment feels endless, it isn’t. Hope that step by step, I can climb out of this. Even if I don’t know how long it will take.

So, if you’re still here, still reading, still waiting for me to find my way back—thank you. I don’t know when my next post will be. I don’t know when I’ll have something meaningful to say again. But I’m trying. And for now, that has to be enough.

With love, 

Me