27/03/2025
I am an individual, even when I am a wife, lover, mother, sister, or daughter. Yet I wish I could split myself to be everything and anything. I would give my all to those who need me—a piece, a cut of my personality, my wisdom, the part they need most at that very moment. But I am one person. I am only human. There is only one of me.
Sometimes, I wish I had that village. The people I can turn to. The hug I need most. A pat on the head and back, that it will be okay. I will be okay. Everything will be okay. Someone to step in when I am overwhelmed. Someone to stop me when I am drained. I'm done thinning myself out throughout the day.
Yet I cannot mouth my need, the help I want. The laundry is piling up behind me. The burden I carry. The loneliness that lingers in the dark. My demons lurk, ready to swallow me whole.
This is what it means to be an adult: to be alone even when you have the whole world within arm's reach. Yet, we are taught to endure and bite our tongues, not to admit we need help, or we become failures. Not seeking help is to avoid shaming ourselves for being weak and overwhelmed in moments when others thrive and become stronger. Yet, I only need a shoulder or an ear to hear my pleas.
But my pleas become a rant that will never quench my thirst. It will not suffice to quell my anger, this raging fire that seeps into my bones. All because the path I walk upon was meant to have support, love, and care, yet I do not have it as I walk alone. I dug my grave, and now I must lie in it. I reap what I sowed, as it was my choice.
This is what it means to be human, to be an adult, and to live a life you choose as you walk the path to survival each day.
Yang
