Years Pasted

I reread my past 10-year writing. They are gloomy. Since I was the author, I could easily be brought back to the emotion that I wanted to deliver through each sentence. Eventhough, I know really well that I grow each day, in general, 10 years is a really long period to always choose 'gloom' each day.

I view myself as a survivor. Many people find themselves stuck in the aftermath of a broken heart, but I refuse to let it define my mental state. I chose to channel that energy into my writing (glad I love to write). As I started to see psychologists for the last 7-8 years, I began journaling daily to track my emotions and understand chaotic things living in my mind. This practice of self-reflection didn't just help me survive; it gave me the raw material to grow. I chose to channel that energy into my work, eventually publishing books --- and I can't believe that I really publish books while keeping my sanity intact.

Again, choosing the same thing, placing my hope in the same person for the last 10 years feels like I have been doing nothing. Things that I believe were good deeds, right choices, started to be my blindness --- my weakness. They were blurred when I mistook endurance for love. I thought that by staying, I was being strong, but really, I was just disappearing. It wasn’t until I started tracking my days in those journals that the blur began to clear. Seeing my own cycle on paper made it impossible to keep lying to myself; I realized I wasn't building a life, I was just waiting for one to end it.

Hard for me to take an exit. 

I couldn't bear the thought of the pain it might cause my kids and my parents.

I couldn't stand imagining the noise my decision would make.

I was about to give a third of my life away. 

I was afraid of the uncertainty I'd have to carry. 

For some time, quiting wasn't an option even it started eating me alive.

As my psychologists told me to open up to the family, I start to see how a normal people see me after listening to my story. They start to see me as a victim, while actualy, I am not. I, with every sense I had, chose to stay.

Some people admire those who move fast, speak clearly, and take control of their lives. In short, doing something significant is seen as bravery, while taking small steps or going back and forth each day is considered weakness.

But things happen in my life, in its quiet cruelty, teaches me otherwise.

There are moments when standing still is not the absence of choice. 

When I remain silent, I am not always confused. Sometimes I am tired. Sometimes I am grieving. Sometimes I am calculating the cost of every possible direction and realizing that none of them feel safe yet.

I choose not to answer a message because replying would reopen a wound I am still learning how to close. I choose not to leave because staying, for now, hurts less than the chaos of starting over. I choose not to fight back because peace, even temporary, feels more necessary than being right. 

Stillness is rarely empty. It is filled with fear, hope, doubt, --- endurance. When I appears to be doing nothing, I may in fact be surviving. I may be gathering strength, learning the shape of the pain, or waiting for the moment when my voice no longer trembles.

Of course, doing nothing has consequences. Time moves forward regardless of the readiness. Opportunities pass. Doors close. But action, too, carries consequences. Every step forward risks loss, judgment, and irreversible change. Choosing to pause is not choosing safety—it is choosing a different kind of risk.

And perhaps the hardest truth is this: many of my most painful regrets are born not from the wrong action, but from the moment I stayed too long in stillness. Yet many of my deepest wounds come from moving before I was ready. There is no version of life without consequence.

Now I see the 'exit' more clearly than ever. And, I summon every bit of courage I have to choose something that I always avoid.

The fear is still there, lingers at the same corner.

Doing nothing is a choice, so is quitting.