I think I’ve been drowning quietly.
Not the kind of drowning where people rush to save you.
The kind where you still go to work. Still answer texts. Still smile. Still lead. Still handle responsibilities. Still tell people, “I’m good.”
While internally you feel yourself slipping further underwater.
Since May 4th, life has felt heavy in a way I can’t fully explain.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just heavy.
Like every thought weighs something. Like every responsibility comes with another invisible responsibility attached to it.
And the truth is… I’m tired.
Not lazy tired. Not sleepy tired.
Soul tired.
The kind of tired that comes from carrying too much for too long while pretending it doesn’t hurt.
People see strength and think strength means you don’t break.
That’s bullshit.
Strong people break all the time. We just break privately.
I’ve sat on my balcony these past few weeks staring out at Los Angeles wondering how so many people around me keep moving so normally while I’m over here trying to rebuild myself from the inside out.
Coffee in one hand. Blunt smoke floating into the sky. Birds singing like the world isn’t on fire. Plants growing around me while I’m trying to figure out if I’m growing or falling apart.
Sometimes I honestly don’t even know which one it is.
There’s pressure coming from every direction.
Financial pressure. Leadership pressure. Family pressure. Personal pressure. Creative pressure. Internal pressure.
And nobody really teaches men what to do when they become emotionally exhausted but still have mouths to feed and people depending on them.
You just keep going.
Even when your mind is loud. Even when your chest feels tight. Even when disappointment starts stacking on top of disappointment.
And what makes it worse is that people only celebrate the finished product.
Nobody celebrates the ugly middle.
Nobody applauds confusion. Nobody congratulates uncertainty. Nobody hands out awards for surviving mentally.
But surviving mentally may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I’ve had moments recently where I felt angry at everything.
Angry at systems. Angry at people. Angry at circumstances. Angry at myself for mistakes I can’t undo. Angry that I keep trying so hard while life keeps testing me anyway.
And then I feel guilty for being angry because somewhere deep inside me I know there are people who have it worse.
But pain doesn’t disappear just because somebody else is hurting too.
Mine is still mine.
And I’ve been carrying it quietly.
Then May 15th came.
Five years married to my wife.
Five years with the woman who has seen versions of me the world never will.
The ambitious version. The exhausted version. The frustrated version. The hopeful version. The financially stressed version. The dreaming version. The broken version.
And she stayed.
That hits me deeply.
Because loyalty is rare now.
People leave when life stops feeling convenient. People disappear when the glamour fades. People love comfort more than commitment.
But she stayed through storms she never deserved to stand in.
That woman has seen me sit in silence trying to mentally calculate bills. Seen me frustrated. Seen me emotionally drained. Seen me trying to hold everything together while quietly falling apart.
And somehow she still looks at me with love.
I don’t think people understand how healing that is for a man.
This month also forced me to confront another truth:
I cannot keep living only for survival.
I’ve spent so much time trying to survive that I forgot what peace even feels like.
That realization hurt.
Because I’m beginning to understand that some of the things I chased weren’t really making me happy. Some of the pressure I carried wasn’t even mine to carry. Some of the expectations I placed on myself were slowly destroying me.
So now I’m learning how to release things.
Release debt. Release fear. Release shame. Release ego. Release old versions of myself that no longer fit who I’m becoming.
And honestly? That process feels violent internally.
Growth is not always beautiful.
Sometimes growth feels like grieving yourself while still being alive.
Sometimes it feels like standing in the middle of burned ruins trying to convince yourself you can rebuild.
And maybe that’s where I am right now.
Not healed. Not finished. Not fully okay.
Just rebuilding.
Quietly. Honestly. Emotionally. One breath at a time.
And for once in my life…
I’m no longer apologizing for admitting that this shit hurts.
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