Holding it together

Some of us learned that emotions don’t change anything. That no one was coming, and falling apart would likely have drawn the wrong kind of attention—or no attention at all. So we got on with it. We stayed composed. We coped quietly. Maybe we became the one who didn’t need much—who was reliable, steady, unaffected. Not because we didn’t feel, but because it felt safer not to.

Over time, that becomes a kind of identity. We become the strong one. We stop needing care. We stop expressing pain. We tell ourselves it’s better this way—less messy, more manageable. “It is what it is.” But over time, the effort of staying composed takes its toll. Emotions don’t disappear—they just go underground. We might notice a low-level irritability, a tightness in the chest, or a sense of distance from things that used to matter. Sometimes it shows up as tension, sleep problems, or a sudden edge we can’t explain. Life goes on, but it can feel muted—like we’re living one step removed.

Letting someone in doesn’t come naturally. We are great at keeping things in perspective, staying rational, staying useful. Admitting we have doubts can feel unnecessary, or like it might make things worse. But if no one ever sees what’s underneath… are you ever really known at all?

Therapy doesn’t ask for drama. It meets us where we are—even in the silence. It’s a space where we don’t have to perform or explain. Where the part of us that had to stay so still for so long might finally be allowed to feel.