Between Days

The Silence Between Days

Sometimes, the mind becomes a place you do not want to return to, yet you are trapped there every night. Thoughts pile up quietly, one over another, until breathing itself feels heavy. Life turns into a routine stripped of meaning—wake up, go to work, come back home, sleep, and repeat. In between, you scroll endlessly through your phone, not because you are interested in anything, but because distraction feels safer than silence. Silence has a way of asking questions you are not ready to answer. This is not just my story. It is the story of countless people living and working abroad—far from home, family, and familiarity. We leave in search of stability, opportunity, and a better future, but often we underestimate the emotional cost of distance. We learn to survive independently, to manage responsibilities alone, and to suppress our emotions because there is no familiar shoulder to lean on. Slowly, loneliness becomes a companion we never invited.

There were days when my problems felt overwhelming. They crowded my mind, leaving no space for peace. At the same time, I was painfully aware that there are people in this world facing far worse realities—poverty, illness, loss, and injustice. That awareness made me feel guilty for my own struggles. I kept telling myself that my pain was insignificant, that I should be grateful instead of broken. But pain does not disappear when you ignore it. It only grows stronger in the dark. What made things more frightening was a thought I never imagined I would carry: if nothing works out, suicide might be the answer. Writing this feels heavy even now. That thought did not come suddenly or dramatically; it crept in quietly and stayed for some days. And when such thoughts take hold of your mind, they isolate you completely. You stop thinking about possibilities, people, or the future. You only think about yourself—your mistakes, your fears, your exhaustion. Everything becomes narrow. Everything becomes loud inside your head.

During that time, I began to change without realizing it. I pushed myself away from things I once cared about. Conversations felt tiring. Joy felt distant. People around me noticed that I was not the same person anymore. Yet, on the surface, I seemed fine. I went to work, completed my responsibilities, and smiled when necessary. That is the most dangerous part of silent suffering—when you look alright, people assume you are. Inside, however, I was not okay. I wanted to talk to someone. I truly did. But fear stopped me. Fear of being judged. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of becoming a burden in someone else’s life. So I stayed quiet, convincing myself that I could handle it alone. Many of us are taught that strength means endurance, that asking for help is weakness. In reality, that belief nearly destroys us. Eventually, I reached a point where staying silent felt more frightening than speaking. I decided to reach out to someone I trusted. I did not explain much. I simply asked them to let me know when they were free because I needed to talk. When they asked me to come home, I went—carrying a heart full of thoughts I had never said out loud.

I choose not to mention their name, not out of shame, but out of respect. This moment was not about who they were; it was about what happened when I finally allowed myself to open up. I sat there for hours and spoke. I spoke about my routine, my loneliness, my exhaustion, and the darkness I had been carrying. I spoke about the thoughts I was afraid to admit. Not everything came out perfectly—some things are too complex for words—but enough did. And in that honesty, something shifted. For the first time in a long while, I felt lighter. Not healed, not fixed, but lighter. It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from my mind.

That moment taught me something powerful: pain grows in silence, but it weakens when shared. Speaking about my struggles did not make me weak—it made me human. It reminded me that I was not alone, even when my mind tried to convince me otherwise. When I left that place, my problems were still there. Life had not magically changed. But my perspective had. I reached a point where I told myself, let whatever comes, come; I am ready to face it. That sentence did not come from confidence—it came from acceptance. Acceptance that running away was no longer an option, but neither was giving up.

Even now, there are days when words do not come easily. Writing feels harder than it used to. Sometimes it feels like life has drained the emotion from my language. But perhaps healing is not about returning to who we were—it is about learning how to exist again, slowly, honestly, and without pretending. This experience made me realize how many people walk around carrying invisible battles. The friend who laughs the loudest, the colleague who never complains, the person who always says “I’m fine”—any one of them could be silently struggling. We often misunderstand strength. We think it looks fearless and confident, but sometimes strength is simply choosing to stay. Choosing to speak. Choosing to live one more day.

If there is one truth I have learned, it is this: asking for help does not make you weak, and feeling lost does not make you broken. Life does not always move forward in a straight line. Sometimes it pauses. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it feels unbearable. But even in those moments, there is value in staying, in breathing, and in believing—quietly, imperfectly—that things can change.And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is say, I am not okay, and allow someone to listen.

“Sometimes surviving is not about finding light, but about refusing to let the darkness decide your end”.       

                              Joe❤