When The Sea Wall Breaks

The sea wall eventually loses its strength. No matter how high or how thick—if the waves keep crashing, it breaks. Even the strongest concrete gives in eventually. And that’s how it feels, too—when you’re constantly hit by things no one else can see..

When wave after wave plummets down—not of water, but of pain, confusion, pressure, loneliness—all you can do is brace yourself, again and again. We build walls to protect ourselves, to look strong, to keep everything in check. We think that if we just keep standing, we’ll be fine.

So, we hold everything in. We keep moving forward, masking the cracks behind a practiced smile. We become so used to the performance that we forget how to actually feel—or worse, how to admit what we feel at all.

And somewhere along the way, we’ve succeeded in convincing ourselves that silence is strength. That if no one sees the wounds, then they don’t really exist. We hide part of ourselves—tending to our sorrow in secret. We sit with the ache alone, convincing ourselves that no one would understand, or maybe, that no one should.

But in hiding, we forget something important: there are people who care. People who don’t ask us to be perfect. People who don’t need us to be "okay." They just want to be there—with us. Not to fix us, not to change the tides, but to stay through the storm. They don’t force the light into our darkness. Sometimes, they simply become the light—a presence, warm and unshakeable. And in those moments when we can’t see the brighter side, they’re the ones willing to stay with us in the dark. To sit beside us. To hold our hand, not our shame.

The hole inside might never fully go away. Wounds don’t close just because we want them to. They heal slowly, if they heal at all. But they can be softened—with laughter that echoes off familiar walls, with voices that remind us we’re not alone. With small moments that stitch something whole into the places that once felt too broken to fix.

And so, I’m grateful. For the ones who carry my burden beside me, even when they didn’t have to. For those who stayed—not because they needed to, but because they wanted to. Thank you for showing me that being strong doesn’t mean being unbreakable. That falling doesn’t make me less, that trembling doesn’t make me weak. That I can falter and still be loved. Still be enough.

For most of my life, I believed that vulnerability was dangerous. To feel deeply was to risk too much.

So I hid—behind smiles, behind silence, behind the illusion of strength. But with you, I’ve learned that I don’t have to pretend. That I’m allowed to want more than just survival. I’m allowed to want warmth.

To be heard.

To be held.

To be loved without having to earn it.

We might carry different scars, but we dream the same dreams: of comfort, of belonging, of love that stays.

We face different storms, but somehow, we all just want to make it through. To know that everything we’re carrying—every ache, every quiet prayer, every heavy breath—will one day lead to something beautiful. And maybe, just maybe—that’s how we heal.

Not by pretending the wall never breaks—but by letting others stand beside us when it finally does.