That’s all I want to say about that part. The details don’t really matter—not here, not now. What matters is what came after.
Because nobody talks about this part. Nobody talks about what it’s like to function when you’re terrified. What it’s like to go through the motions—packing lunches, tying shoes, driving to school—while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Nobody talks about what it’s like to hold space for someone else’s pain while barely having space for your own.
I have PTSD. It clings to me, sneaking into the quiet moments, showing up uninvited. And yet, life doesn’t pause. There are still responsibilities, routines, and people who need me. So I did what I always do. I got up. I got the kids ready. I got them to school.
I have help, and I am grateful for that. But even with help, the fear is still there. The waiting is still there. The exhaustion of trying not to react to every trigger, of trying to be strong when I feel like I’m crumbling inside, is still there.
Nobody talks about what it’s like to keep going after. After trauma, after crisis, after your world shifts but you’re still expected to move through it as if nothing happened. Nobody talks about how much strength it takes just to exist in the aftermath.
So today, I’m talking about it. Because maybe someone else out there is feeling this too—this quiet, lonely kind of fear—and they need to know they’re not alone.
And maybe I need to remind myself of that, too.
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