not always where you can point to it.
not always in ways that translate.

there’s no clean explanation.
no single word that holds it.

you learn what gets believed.
a cast. a scar. something visible.

everything else—
you learn how to say it carefully.
how to say it less.
how to not say it at all.

because once you look “fine,”
everything comes back.

the expectations.
the pace.
the version of you that didn’t have to think about this.

be consistent.
be reliable.
be who you were.

you try.

but pain doesn’t keep time.
it doesn’t stay in one place.
it doesn’t introduce itself the same way twice.

some days it’s your body.
some days it’s your mind.
some days it’s both,
pulling you in opposite directions
while you stand there pretending you’re steady.

and there’s a quiet shame in that.

in canceling again.
in needing more than people think you should.
in feeling yourself become
someone harder to explain.

so you carry it.
clean. contained.
so it doesn’t spill onto anyone else.

you build a life around it.
an inner world that can hold
what the outside won’t.

you learn your limits.
then you learn how often
you’ll be asked to ignore them.

there isn’t one version of this.
not mental. not physical. not visible. not invisible.

it all counts.
even when it doesn’t look like anything.

even when no one asks.

if you’re living inside something
that doesn’t let up—
and still finding a way to be here—

i see you.