There, I said it. And honestly, I already feel like crying.
It’s funny—if you asked me any other time, I’d be the first to dodge physical affection like my life depended on it. I don’t do casual hugs, reassuring pats on the back, or comforting hands on my shoulder. That’s just never been me. But right now? Right now, if someone were to ask me how I’m doing, I might just break down on the spot.
I feel like I’m holding back an ocean of emotions, barely keeping them in check. It’s like trying to carry a cup of water while running—it’s only a matter of time before something spills over. And lately, I’ve been teetering on the edge, one deep sigh away from completely unraveling.
I’ve done everything I can to manage this emotional storm on my own. I’ve exercised until my legs felt like noodles. I’ve journaled my feelings into oblivion, filling pages with thoughts I can’t say out loud. I’ve drowned myself in work, staying so busy that I barely have time to process anything. Food? Eaten. Sleep? Tried, but my mind prefers 3 a.m. anxiety marathons.
And yet, despite all of this, there’s this quiet, nagging feeling that maybe—just maybe—a hug wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now. I don’t mean a quick, polite embrace or one of those awkward side hugs. I mean a real, solid, wordless hug—the kind that says I see you. I hear you. You don’t have to carry this alone.
I don’t know why I feel this way. Maybe I’ve been strong for too long. Maybe my usual coping mechanisms aren’t enough this time. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to accept that it’s okay to want comfort, even if I don’t always know how to ask for it.
So, if you see me standing there, looking like I’m holding my breath, just know that I’m not as put-together as I might seem. And if I finally let my guard down and ask, “Can you give me a hug?”—please, just say yes.
No sudden movements, though. I’m still me, after all.
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