They used to believe that staying meant standing still. That if they didn't move fast enough, didn't improve enough, didn't become someone better soon, they were failing at life.
But staying turned out to be something else entirely.
Staying was waking up on days when leaving felt easier. Staying was choosing to exist without demanding meaning from every breath. Staying was not running when the old heaviness returned.
There are days when they wake up and the weight is back. Not dramatically—just quietly. It sits in their chest while they brush their teeth. It follows them through simple tasks. It whispers familiar questions:
"What if this is all there is?"
They don't panic anymore. They don't rush to fix themselves. They've learned that fear grows louder when it's fought too quickly.
So they stay.
They make the bed slowly. They drink something warm. They allow the day to unfold without forcing it to prove anything.
Some days are gentle. Some days are not. Progress no longer announces itself. It doesn't come with relief or clarity. Sometimes progress looks like canceling plans without guilt. Sometimes it looks like showing up even when joy is absent.
They are learning that staying does not require confidence. It only requires honesty.
There are moments when the future feels too big again. When questions return:
"Will I ever feel safe in my own life?" "Will this effort ever turn into something brighter?"
On those nights, they don't search for answers. They remind themselves of something simpler:
I am here.
Not healed. Not certain. Just here.
And here is enough to begin.
They no longer measure their life by milestones. They measure it by moments of presence. By the days they chose not to disappear. By the times they rested instead of punishing themselves for being tired.
Staying has taught them something unexpected: They are stronger than they thought—not because they endured everything, but because they stopped abandoning themselves.
They still have bad days. They still break sometimes. But now, breaking doesn't mean ending. It means pausing. It means holding themselves the way they once wished someone else would.
At night, when the world goes quiet again, they no longer ask for a different life. They ask for the courage to stay inside this one.
And most nights, that courage arrives quietly.
Not as hope. Not as certainty.
But as a decision.
To remain. To breathe. To try again tomorrow—without promising anything beyond that.
They are still here. Not as a victory. Not as a conclusion.
But as a choice they continue to make.
And for now— that choice is enough.