There are moments when it’s not about strength. It’s not about choice, or character, or will, or some kind of “should.” There are moments when you simply… can’t.
Everything that once had direction falls apart in the silence between yesterday and today – and you stand there – like a memory that hasn’t yet faded, but no longer belongs anywhere.
They say that the moment when you most want to give up is the moment when you should gather the strength to continue. As if life were a straight line,
and not a spiral of the same wounds that only change their skin.
But to continue when you have already lost hope and meaning feels impossible. Because there is grief that doesn’t fade.
There is love that doesn’t pass.
There are moments that cannot be outlived – only worn down, like shoes that still smell of the road but no longer walk it.
But maybe not everything is meant to be outlived. Maybe there are pains that don’t want to be overcome, but simply heard.
Maybe there are losses you don’t want to overcome, because something real still lives within them – the memory, the feeling, the person you were before you started protecting yourself.
The inability to continue is not always weakness. Sometimes it’s the last way to stay true – to what once was, to the version of yourself you still believe you are.
And when you stand in that still place, between “before” and “after,”
between the life you had and the life you are supposed to begin,
there is a strange peace. A silence in which you don’t have to be a hero.
Just a person. Breathing. Waiting.
Maybe continuing is not movement,
but permission – to be here, in this pause where nothing happens,
and yet you are still alive.
And one day, without knowing when, you will take a small step.
Not because you have gathered yourself.
But because you have simply stopped resisting life.