There comes a point where survival quietly shape-shifts into structure. Not a monument. A framework. A few floorboards. A kettle. Maybe even a houseplant that hasn’t died yet.
This is that point.
Over the past few years, I’ve been quietly gathering pieces of myself. Not in a grand, cinematic montage. More like scavenging after a polite apocalypse.
Here’s what I’ve stitched together:
A network of humans who don’t need me to sparkle or spill - just show up. They answer texts when I can’t find my lungs. They laugh when I try jokes that only make sense emotionally. I count them. Twice.
Routine meetings with a licensed translator of tangled thoughts (also known as counselling). Some days I bring metaphors. Some days I bring silence in a cardigan. Both get heard.
I now live in a tiny container of calm (also known as an apartment), with just enough space for dreams that don’t shout. The walls are quiet. The shadows behave. I make tea with two mugs, just in case hope shows up thirsty.
I said goodbye to my life in culinary chaos. That job fed the worst parts of me: the fire, the frenzy, the open bar disguised as a shift drink. I traded it in not for quiet, but for clarity. I'm learning to cook again, this time without performance. This time for taste, not escape.
I now work a job that doesn’t set me on fire. Not metaphorically, and thankfully not literally. It's not flashy, but it fits. Pays the bills. Leaves space. Doesn’t require losing myself to feel useful.
And yes, I contribute a monthly tithe to a nameless collective responsible for maintaining the illusion of civic belonging. Some say it's tradition. Others whisper it's a fee for breathing beneath certain postcodes. I call it… existence rent. A toll booth on the highway of nationality. The amount varies, the meaning fluctuates, and no one ever thanks you for paying it. (There’s a prize if you guess what I mean. Spoiler: it’s not gratitude.)
And lately quietly, tentatively I’ve been looking up.
Not just figuratively. I mean skyward.
Sometimes the night feels like a question I haven’t learned to answer yet.
Maybe God’s out there. Maybe just stars. Maybe both.
Maybe space holds the thing I’ve been circling: meaning that doesn’t require explanation.
I’m not done. Not healed. Not sainted or sage.
But I am here.
Sober. Housed. Employed. Weirdly hopeful.
Paying invisible gatekeepers. Cooking again. Searching upward.
And for the first time in a long time, “here” feels like somewhere I might want to stay.
- This Other Voice, hands calloused, heart slightly defrosting, possibly orbiting Saturn
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