Tag: relationships

The Weight of Silence: Why We Need to Talk About Hard Things

On By evemarie076Leave a comment

Today I want to share something deeply personal with you — a piece of my story I’ve carried quietly for years. If you’ve ever hidden parts of yourself out of fear or shame, I hope this helps you feel less alone.

The First Time He Hit Me

The first time he hit me, I still thought it was my fault.

When I was eighteen, I was married to the man I thought would be my partner forever. Shortly after we said I do, he physically abused me for the first time. The first time turned to a second, and a third, and then too many to count.

Emotional and physical abuse took a toll on me, and I didn’t recognize the woman I was becoming.

I thought I needed to hide my truth. I told myself if I just smiled and showed up for work with makeup covering the bruises, no one would know.

I hid it from everyone — even my family. I was so ashamed to admit the man I loved was doing this to me. If I admitted that the man I picked was really a monster, then people would judge me and be disappointed. They would also wonder why I hadn’t left yet.

The Moment I Couldn’t Hide Anymore

I thought silence was safer. If I didn’t talk about the fear and exhaustion, the way my body ached under the weight of it all, then maybe I could make it disappear.

One day, when I went to my shift at the pizza shop, my coworker Allison cornered me as we wiped down the tables in preparation to open. She pauses, her face turning serious.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Adrenaline surges through me. Does she know? I force myself to meet her eyes.

“Does Chris beat you?”

Her words land heavy, pressing the air from my chest. I can’t speak. Finally, I manage, “Why do you ask?” I need proof that she’s right to ask.

“I take my son across the street from you for childcare. The babysitter said she saw him dragging you down the street by your hair.” Her voice stays calm, like we could be talking about fashion.

Heat rises in my face. I’m mortified someone saw — and no one called the cops.

This is the first time I admit the abuse I hide from the world — and the only reason I do it is because she calls me out. She has the proof.

The Silence I Carried

I have learned that many people avoid discussing pain, fear, or grief. I was always too worried about what people would think if they knew. This idea started when I was a child. I was taught not to show emotions — fear, pain, isolation. It’s what my mother was taught. You needed to show the world you are strong. If you admit you are struggling, does it mean you are weak? There’s a sense that no one else could possibly understand what you are going through, so it feels safer to stay isolated.

I didn’t think anyone was paying attention. Looking back, I can’t count how many times people asked if I was doing okay or needed anything.

“I’m fine” became my go-to response. It was so embedded in me that even after I left my husband, I still didn’t know how to ask for help.

Motherhood and Isolation

I thought I could stop hiding after I left my husband, but the habit of silence had rooted itself deep inside me.

When my daughter was born with a rare disease, my isolation got worse. I was faced with what I still deem to be the biggest challenge of my life. Yet I hid. I thought mothers are always supposed to be strong, and asking for help would mean that I failed.

I thought I had things under control. The sleepless nights. The fear so palpable my body physically shook every day. Until one day, I broke.

The Breakdown That Set Me Free

One night, after yet another long night with no sleep, blood-soaked bandages, and no way to take my daughter’s pain away, I broke. I locked the bathroom door, slid down the wall, and curled my body into the fetal position, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. The words spilled out between gasps: I can’t do this. I’m not okay.

The duct tape I’d wrapped around my life finally split apart, and everything burst open. Saying the words out loud — I am not okay — was the beginning of a new perspective.

I began speaking my truth. Instead of saying, “I’m fine,” I said how I really felt in that moment.

With the truth came power — and slowly, self-acceptance.

Finding My Voice Through Writing

When I realized I wasn’t alone, and didn’t need to do it all alone, I decided to write my stories. With each journal entry and scene written for my memoir, I began to reclaim my voice. Writing has made me confront the things I tried to ignore for so long. Knowing I wasn’t alone gave me the pull to share the hard parts of my life — to help others heal and reclaim their voices the way I am learning to reclaim mine.

An Invitation for You

What’s something that you have never said aloud?

What would happen if you let yourself be honest about it?

Breaking the silence isn’t easy. I continue to work on it every day. Sometimes I want to crawl back into my hiding spot, and sometimes I do. But I know that sharing my stories and speaking my truth doesn’t make me weak — it sets me free.

If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story in the comments. You can also follow me on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/evemarie076/ to follow along as I continue writing my memoir.

When Strength Becomes a Cage

On By evemarie076Leave a comment

I sit on the carpet, legs crossed, the worn fibers pressing into my thigh. My back rests against the locked door. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing myself not to cry. The house is quiet for the first time all day. I should be using this rare moment of stillness to rest. Instead, I’m hiding.

 I just need five minutes. Five minutes where I am not needed by anyone. Where no one expects me to have the answers. Where I don’t have to be the strong one. But even here, alone, the weight never leaves me. Because when people see you as strong, they don’t think to ask if you’re okay.

For as long as I can remember I have been the strong one. The person people turn to, the one who figures it out. I have been through more than most people know—single motherhood, trauma, the relentless fight to advocate for my daughter’s medical care. Through it all, the message I told myself was always clear: I had to be strong, I couldn’t break or ask for help, if I did it meant I had failed. 

No one tells you that strength, when worn like armor for too long, becomes a cage.

The problem with being strong is that people assume you don’t need help. They lean on you, but they never check in on you. They expect you to have the answers, to push through, to be okay—because you always are. So, you start to believe that breaking down isn’t an option. That asking for help means disappointing people.  

“How do you do it all?”  someone asks, smiling like they admire me. I smile back. “I just do; I have to.” Because that’s what I’m supposed to say. What I can’t say is, I don’t know if I can do this anymore. What I can’t say is, I am barely holding it together. The weight of being the strong one isn’t just exhausting; it’s isolating.

When my daughter was just a couple of years old, I was barely keeping it all together. She wasn’t sleeping. She could never get comfortable. Her medical issues were constant, and I had no idea how to fix them. No one expects a child to need their first surgery before they turn two. But I had been naïve. I had been lucky, raising two healthy boys before her. I had no idea what it meant to fight for a child’s health, to be a medical advocate, to live with the constant fear that something might go wrong. 

 One night, after a particularly long week, I showed up to my waitressing shift running on fumes. A coworker offered me a drink. A few drinks turned into a few more. And since I wasn’t much of a drinker, it didn’t take long before I was drunk—sobbing to my boss about my daughter, about my boys, about how I wasn’t sure I was a good enough mother for any of them.

 I don’t remember what I said, only that I finally let it all spill out. I was lucky. My boss didn’t fire me. But I couldn’t shake the shame of losing control, of letting my composure crack in front of someone else. 

For so long, I believed strength meant endurance. That it meant pushing through, showing up, never cracking. But I have learned that real strength isn’t about carrying everything—it’s about knowing when to put some of it down. It’s about being brave enough to say, I need help. 

The strongest people aren’t the ones who never break. They’re the ones who know when to ask for help before they do.

If you’ve ever felt like the person who has to hold it all together, ask yourself this: When was the last time someone held you? When was the last time you let yourself lean on someone else? 

Strength isn’t about never falling—it’s about knowing you don’t have to stand alone. 

You don’t have to carry it all, all the time.