The storms stops here

There are things in me that don’t get to move forward.

They exist. I don’t pretend they don’t. Anger. Fear. Fatigue. The old reflex to strike first so I don’t have to feel the hit. The temptation to discharge pressure just to quiet it.

But they don’t get to pass through me.

The people in my life are not responsible for the storms that move through my bloodstream. They should not be asked to be buffers. They are not sandbags. They are not the firing line for my unregulated fire.

So when the surge comes, I let it stay with me.

Not because I am disciplined. I’m not.
Not because I am admirable. I’m not.
Not because I want credit. I don’t.

Because it’s mine.

There is a line between what I feel and what I allow to reach others. That line isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t glow. It doesn’t come with music.

It’s just a line I hold.

Sometimes it looks like silence.
Sometimes it looks like walking away.
Sometimes it looks like swallowing a sentence that would have landed hard and left a mark.

No one applauds restraint. No one should see it. That’s how it’s meant to be. If they’re seeing it, it’s already too late.

I don’t need to be fearless. I don’t need to be noble. I don’t need to narrate it. I don’t need to be understood. I need to make sure what haunts me doesn’t reach them.

That’s the work.

There are nights when the pressure is heavy enough that relief feels reasonable. A sharp word would ease it. A selfish choice would ease it. Collapse would ease it.

But ease isn’t the measure.
What reaches them is.

So the storm stays here.
It runs its course in my blood.
And it does not pass through.