How has it been months since I last wrote?

It honestly shocks me. Writing was my anchor—my way of coping, healing, surviving. Not being able to write has felt like a slow erosion of my identity, like I’ve been silently mourning parts of myself.

As always, I had planned to clear my drafts before the new year. Start fresh. But right before the new year, everything fell apart. I went through some of the worst online harassment I’ve ever faced. It left me bed-ridden, in shock. Something I loved—someone I was—felt attacked. And from people I once felt safe with. That betrayal broke something in me. And it didn’t stop there—it just kept getting worse. So I retreated. I stopped being vulnerable. I stopped writing. I stopped making sense of my emotions. It felt pointless.

November was rough too. Honestly, it all started unraveling around August. I wanted it to be a beautiful season—new beginnings, maybe even love. And yes, I did fall in love. But I wasn’t loved back—not in the way I deserved. I was told I was loved, but I never really felt it. Everything I experienced said otherwise. Still, I held on. I compromised, I bargained, I hoped—until I nearly lost myself. Actually, I did. That relationship left me with wounds I’m still learning to name. And what hurts most is that I silenced myself for someone else. I didn’t write about what I went through because I wanted to protect them. And in doing that, I betrayed me. I don’t remember half of what happened, but my body does. It’s strange—how trauma lingers in muscles and skin, even when the mind forgets.

Then came February. And it was brutal. Shattered glass, wilted flowers—everything I once loved felt destroyed. I had started detaching in January, little by little. I knew I had to. That relationship was tearing me apart. And detaching—choosing myself—that was hard. I kept slipping back, reasoning with myself, battling emotions with logic. But one day, I said it: It’s over.

I ended it. I burned the bridge. Because I knew if I didn’t, I might walk back. And I couldn’t afford to. I had finally chosen myself. But life doesn’t slow down to let you process. Almost immediately, someone new appeared. Too soon, really. But I was so drained from the last relationship, I didn’t feel like grieving. I just wanted to be happy. And when he said he’d make me happy, I jumped. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was vulnerable. I was still the hopeless romantic who wanted to believe in good endings. But right before my birthday, that too fell apart. He wasn’t who he said he was.

And yet, I wouldn’t let him ruin my birthday.
I told myself no man was worth that.

Then my birthday came. My ex resurfaced, asking for another chance. And there I was—a girl just trying to be happy. So, I gave in. Not because I was healed, not because I had clarity, but because I was tired. I didn’t even get the time to grieve what had ended. But grief doesn’t wait. It caught up with me. It always does.

And now, here I am.
Burnt out.

All I want to do is sleep. Nothing excites me. There’s a void inside me that dulls everything around me. The joy is gone. And yet, I’m overwhelmed by responsibilities I can’t escape. I’m too tired to keep up appearances, too drained to keep every commitment. But I’m still trying. Maybe not as much as I used to. But with whatever I have left.

And that has to be enough for now.