Chapter 2 — Between the Noise and the Silence

Lately, I feel like I’m on autopilot.

Responding, moving forward, doing what needs to be done.

Meeting expectations, going through the motions.

Making noise, but not really moving forward with myself.

I’m present in my actions, but not fully in me.

Like a body that functions while the mind is somewhere else.

A part of me feels suspended—maybe in a thought I never finished, or in an emotion I couldn’t name.

Sometimes someone asks if I’m okay.

And I say yes.

Not because it’s true, but because I don’t have the energy to explain otherwise.

Because I don’t even know how I’m doing.

I’m not unwell. But I’m not well either.

I exist… but not entirely.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to “be okay.”

Whether that feeling truly exists, or if it’s just a temporary state we were told to chase.

Sometimes I think I’ve gotten so used to overthinking that when everything’s quiet, I feel strange.

Like something’s missing.

Like noise has become my natural state.

And that scares me a little.

Because the body endures.

The mind, not always.

There are days when exhaustion isn’t felt in the muscles, or in lost hours of sleep, but in the mind itself—the one that never shuts off.

A kind of tiredness you can’t see, that you can’t measure in days or weeks, only in moments.

An invisible weight that settles into every corner of my thoughts.

That silent wear doesn’t scream, doesn’t complain, doesn’t warn.

It just stays there.

Like a shadow that follows me without rest, without pause.