The Quiet Work of Staying: At the Edge of Survival

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There are people who keep going, even when they’re quietly coming apart.

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They show up for work.

They answer phonecalls.

They hold conversations.

They help friends in needs.

They smile when someone walks past.

Sometimes they even laugh.

And most of the time, no one sees the weight.

Not because they’re hiding. But because it takes too much energy to explain a pain that doesn’t look like pain. Or to find the words for a kind of tiredness that sleep doesn’t fix.

This isn’t crisis.

It isn’t drama.

It isn’t even visible, always.

It’s a slow erosion.

It’s crying in the shower and hoping no one knocks.

It’s holding your breath when you open your inbox.

It’s waking up with the thought: “Not again.”

And getting up anyway.

Sometimes out of habit.

Sometimes because there’s no option.

Sometimes because someone else needs you more than you need rest.

The word for this is often “high-functioning.”

As if the ability to perform neutralizes the ache.

But functioning is not the same as feeling well.

It’s just another version of silence.

For those on the outside:

This might look like flakiness.

Moodiness.

A short fuse.

Too many cancelled plans.

Or someone who’s “just been off lately.”

But what it actually is—

is someone carrying more than they can say, still trying to be normal enough to be loved.

And for the ones living inside it:

There are days where the smallest things feel enormous.

Where brushing your teeth feels like a climb.

Where existing without unraveling takes more effort than anyone could guess.

And still—somehow—you keep going.

There isn’t always a fix.

But there are small things.

Soft things.

Things that don’t cure, but hold.

Maybe it helps to know that sometimes, survival looks like:

• Wearing the same clothes, but drinking a glass of water.

• Speaking out loud, even if it’s only to a plant.

• Opening a window, not because the air will heal you, but because your lungs asked for it.

• Answering one message. Just one.

• Saying, “I’m here. I don’t know what else I am, but I’m here.”

This isn’t a checklist.

It’s a reminder that being alive is not always gentle work. And that anyone still trying, even with nothing left in the tank, is already doing more than enough.

If someone you love is there—in that quiet struggle—don’t ask them to explain it.

Don’t ask them to cheer up.

Just make space.

Sit next to their silence without trying to fix it. And if they let you: stay.

If it’s you—this is your space, too.

You don’t need to be okay to keep breathing. You don’t need to be thriving to be worth loving. You don’t need to smile to deserve someone to see you.

Just… stay.

Stay until the next small thing.

The next quiet breath.

The next possible hour.

You’re not alone.

Even when you are.