The Story I Refuse to Finish
Share
A Cool Night and a Restless Mind
It was one of those cool, heavy nights where my mind just wouldn't stop. I was sitting at a picnic table in the woods, voice recorder on, trying to tell a story about depression. Not the dramatic kind. The invisible kind. The kind that smiles for pictures and keeps showing up to work.
The crickets were going hard, the air smelled like pine and salt, and my brain was in full manic mode. My body was buzzing with old memories: chalk dust, tight buns, the sharp sound of bare feet hitting the mat. I started talking about my gymnastics career, about how early it started for me — three years old — and how easy it was to see which girls had it. The grit, the shine, the obsession.
And then, right in the middle of talking, my voice broke. My throat went tight. My back tensed up. Something inside me whispered, not this one… not tonight.
My body remembers.
The Old Story I Keep Telling
The words that wanted to come out weren’t new. I bored myself attempting to recount the story.
They were the same ones I’ve carried around for years. The ones about pressure and perfection, about being too strong for too long... and... that story is old.
I was supposed to be explaining how invisible depression can be, but the truth was, I didn’t want to tell that story again. Not because it’s not real. But because maybe the thing that’s kept me heavy isn’t the sadness itself, but how loyal I’ve been to worshipping the problem.
The Moment Everything Went Quiet
So I stopped talking. Just sat there, staring into the trees. No music, no breakdown, no neat little healing quote moment. Just me realizing something:
What if I just decided it doesn’t hurt anymore?
Maybe I’m just… tired of being the main character in this sad story?
What if I stopped talking about the pain and started noticing what feels good again? What if instead of “healing,” I just let myself exist?
Remembering What Healing Really Is
That thought hit like a tiny spark.
I could fill my days with good people, small adventures, belly laughs, sunlight, and stillness.. and maybe that’s the remedy. Maybe that’s enough?
If my higher self were sitting across from me at that picnic table, I think she’d say,
“Stop."
And then she’d laugh and say, “Be a good girl, move on."
Learning to Let Go
Maybe being a good girl isn’t about being objectively "good" vs "bad". I think it's about listening.
I think i'm done being the gymnast trying to perfect every skill... for now. All I know for certain is that everything changes.