there is peace in not telling anyone anything

There are days when I carry things that feel too heavy for my chest, but I never speak of them. Not out loud. Not to anyone.

And strangely, it doesn't feel lonely. It feels… safe.

There is a kind of peace in holding your own thoughts in the palm of your hand, gently, as if they were fragile glass. The kind that doesn't beg to be seen, only to be understood by the one who holds it. Some things don't need to be explained. Some aches don't need an audience.

People often say, “You should talk about it. Don't keep it all in.” But they don't understand the relief that comes from keeping something just mine. Not everything needs to be translated into words. Not every wound wants to be touched. Sometimes, speaking it aloud makes it real in a way that hurts more. Sometimes, people listen just enough to reply, but not enough to understand. They mean well, I know that. But meaning well doesn't always feel like comfort.

Sometimes, silence is the only place I feel whole.

When I sit with my thoughts, I don't have to explain why they exist. I don't have to shrink them down to something digestible. I don't have to worry about how they will be received, or if someone will mistake vulnerability for weakness. I just sit with them, like old friends who don't need to speak to understand each other.

There's a strange kind of power in that.

In a world that romanticizes being known, there's something healing about being unknown—about keeping a part of myself tucked away where no one can reach. A secret place untouched by pity, by judgment, by misunderstanding.

I've learned that peace doesn't always look like a conversation. Sometimes, it looks like holding your own hand in the quiet of your room, and reminding yourself that you're allowed to feel this, even if no one else sees it.

And that's enough. That has to be enough.

Because maybe not everything is meant to be told. Maybe some stories are just meant to be lived quietly, softly, fully, alone.