There are lives shaped by struggle. By hopelessness that lingers so long, it becomes the air you breathe. I’ve lived that kind of life, where getting out of bed feels like a triumph. Where brushing your teeth, answering a text, or making it through the day without crying feels monumental. I’ve known what it’s like to be swallowed whole by something you either can’t or don’t want to name out loud.
I’m not in that place right now, and I’m grateful for that. But I haven’t forgotten what it took to survive those days. I carry it with me, not as shame, but as a quiet kind of knowing. A deep respect for the ones still in it.
This is for you.
You, who gets up when every part of you wants to stay buried under the covers. You, who takes your medication even when you feel conflicted about it. You, who goes to therapy, even when it’s exhausting or scary. You, who endures the hurt of living in a world that wasn’t designed to hold you. You, who is learning, maybe for the first time, that setting boundaries is not selfish, it’s necessary.
I want you to know that I see you.
There’s a courage in the choices you make that the world might never applaud. But I know how much they cost. I know how much strength it takes to do what looks small from the outside. Texting a friend and asking for help when your throat tightens with shame. Saying “no” to someone who’s always expected you to say “yes.” Choosing not to self-harm when the urge feels familiar and loud. Taking a mental health day from work or school when the pressure becomes too much to carry.
That’s not weakness. That’s resilience.
Sometimes it’s as quiet as making a meal for yourself, taking a shower, or cleaning the clutter from your nightstand. Sometimes it’s deciding to stay sober one more day, without recognition, without anyone noticing but you. Those choices matter. They are acts of hope in a world that can feel endlessly heavy.
People love a good comeback story. The crash, the rise, the triumphant return. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t arrive like a sunrise, sudden and full of promise. It’s more like a flicker, a candle in the wind. It lives in the in-between moments, the ones where you’re not quite falling apart, but not yet feeling okay. It’s in the pause between grief and relief, the expansion and contraction of daily life. That’s where quiet courage lives. And it’s sacred.
Most of the real work happens in silence. Day after day. Inch by inch. Choosing to keep going, even when there’s no finish line in sight. That’s where healing grows, not in grand transformations, but in a thousand quiet choices. I know this because I’ve lived it.
I’ve sat through therapy sessions where I couldn’t make eye contact. I’ve swallowed pills that tasted like surrender, only to find out later they were small vessels of hope. I’ve spent months numb, wondering if joy would ever return. And I’ve come out the other side, not fixed, but whole in a different way. A kind of kintsugi-wholeness, held together with golden seams.
That life—the one shaped by struggle—has given me something, too. A kind of knowing. Not just of pain, but of what it means to rebuild. Of what it means to live inside the “after.” There’s wisdom in that. A beauty the world doesn’t always recognize, but I see it.
So when someone says, “Easy for you to say. I can’t,” I don’t respond with clichés or solutions. I respond with truth. That I’ve been there, feeling stuck and defeated. That I found courage, not because I felt strong, but because giving up never led me to where I needed to go. I kept choosing the next step. The next breath. The next hour. That’s all it was. That’s all it ever is.
And that choice, made over and over, becomes its own kind of strength. A quiet wisdom that says: “It won’t always feel like this. You are not broken. You are doing the best you can with what you’ve been handed, and that is enough.”
To be quietly courageous means choosing life again and again in ways no one may ever see. It means carrying pain without letting it define you. It means holding onto hope—not loudly but tightly.
You are not weak.
You are quietly, powerfully brave.
And on the days you forget, I’ll remember for you.
People need other people. You are not weak for wanting or needing support. If you’re seeking professional help, we encourage you to use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool. If you reside outside of the US, please browse our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to be connected for free, 24/7 to a trained Crisis Text Line counselor. If it’s encouragement or a listening ear that you need, email our team at [email protected].