The Quiet Month

Trigger Warning:

This story explores themes of trauma recovery, emotional abuse, dissociation, and mental health challenges including CPTSD. While no graphic content is described, the narrative may be triggering for some readers. Please proceed with care.

The Quiet Month

Journal Entries from the First 30 Days of Trying to Heal

Day 1

I didn’t want to write.

The therapist said to “just start somewhere.”

So here: I don’t know how to be quiet with myself without feeling like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.

The silence feels unsafe.

The stillness feels like failure.

But I showed up today. I opened the book. That has to count for something.

Day 2

Woke up with my heart racing.

I haven’t even done anything yet.

It’s like my body thinks it’s already in trouble.

I took a walk today. Didn’t bring headphones.

Heard my own footsteps for the first time in… I don’t know how long.

They sounded heavy. Like they had something to prove.

Day 3

Skipped journaling this morning.

I felt like a fraud pretending I’m doing the work.

But tonight I needed to write. The quiet was too loud. I needed somewhere to put the ache.

I miss a version of myself that never got to exist.

Day 4

Therapist asked me what safety feels like.

I couldn’t answer. I don’t think I’ve ever actually known.

She said, “Maybe safety starts with noticing what doesn’t hurt.”

So I wrote down what didn’t hurt today:

The way the sun came through the kitchen window

My first sip of coffee

A song I didn’t skip

Day 5

Cried in the grocery store.

Nothing dramatic—just stood there in front of the bread and couldn’t breathe.

Someone walked past me and said, “Excuse me,” and it felt like a slap.

It’s weird how kindness hurts when you don’t believe you deserve it.

Day 6

Had a memory today. Not a flashback, not a panic—just a moment that landed softly.

My brother used to bring me grape candy from the gas station when I had a bad day.

I hated grape. I never told him.

Now I wish I could taste it again.

Day 7

One week.

No breakthroughs. No peace. But I haven’t quit.

That has to mean something.

I rearranged my bedroom today. Put the bed against a new wall.

I slept in the same corner for years like I was still hiding.

Now I’m facing the door.

I think that means I’m ready to stay.

Day 8

I watched a little girl in the park fall and scrape her knee.

She screamed. Her mom didn’t hush her.

She just held her while she cried.

I wanted to ask if I could borrow that moment for my inner child.

I didn’t, obviously.

But I imagined it was me.

It helped.

Day 9

I didn’t dissociate today.

Not once.

I felt things. I noticed my own hands. I made breakfast and actually tasted it.

It’s wild how much the body holds when the mind checks out.

Maybe healing isn’t becoming someone new.

Maybe it’s just remembering I’m already here.

Day 10

I looked in the mirror today.

Not to check for flaws. Not to fix anything. Just to see.

I stared until I found softness.

It was in my eyes. I didn’t expect that.

I whispered, “I believe you.”

And I think—for the first time—I meant it.

Day 11

I heard a door slam today and my whole body flinched.

No one yelled. Nothing happened.

But I couldn’t breathe for two full minutes.

I hate that I react to ghosts louder than the living.

I hate that silence used to mean danger.

I’m trying to rewire it to mean peace. But today, I lost that round.

Day 12

I had a good day.

And it scared me.

Because now I’m waiting for something bad to balance it out.

Is it always going to feel like joy is a setup?

I kept checking my phone for bad news.

None came. Just silence. And this time, it didn’t choke me. Just hovered.

Day 13

Therapist said I need to start naming what happened.

Not the sugarcoated version. Not the “it wasn’t that bad” lie.

So here’s the truth:

He hurt me.

They ignored it.

And I survived anyway.

I wrote that down ten times today.

Every time, it felt a little less impossible.

Day 14

Had a dream I was back in that house.

I wasn’t a child, though. I was me now.

I walked in, opened every door, turned on every light.

Even the one in the room where it happened.

I woke up shaking, but not afraid.

Maybe that’s progress. Maybe that’s power.

Day 15

Halfway.

I almost quit today. The pages felt heavy.

My mind went quiet in that dangerous way.

Then I opened to Day 1. Read my own words: “I don’t know how to be quiet without feeling like something bad is coming.”

And suddenly I knew—I’m not in that place anymore.

I wrote myself out of it.

Day 16

Someone said “you’re so strong” today.

I didn’t know how to take it.

It always feels like they mean “you’re good at surviving pain,” not “you deserve to feel peace.”

I don’t want to be strong anymore.

I want to be safe.

I want to be soft and still be okay.

Day 17

I found my old journal.

The one from the year I started hiding everything.

I read one entry that said: “I think it’s my fault.”

I cried for that girl. Not just because she wrote it…

But because no one told her she was wrong.

So I’m telling her now.

You hear me? It wasn’t your fault.

Day 18

I screamed into a pillow today.

Real scream. Not a pretty one. Not a movie moment.

I just broke.

And when it was over—I felt something leave.

Not pain. Not memory.

Shame, maybe.

I washed my face and made tea. Didn’t apologize to myself once.

That might be the most radical thing I’ve ever done.

Day 19

I sat still for 10 minutes. No music. No phone. No panic.

Just me, my breath, and the sound of the ceiling fan.

I counted 48 inhales.

Not because I had to—but because I could.

For the first time, stillness didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like proof.

Day 20

I wrote a letter to the person who hurt me.

Didn’t send it. Probably never will.

But I said everything:

How he silenced me. How they doubted me.

How I still carry it in my spine, my sleep, my triggers.

And how I’m finally putting it down.

Not for him—for me.

Day 21

I laughed today.

Not the hollow kind. Not the forced “I’m fine” kind.

A real, belly laugh that surprised me when it came out.

It echoed through the room.

And no one told me to be quiet.

No one flinched. Not even me.

Day 22

I stopped mid-sentence in therapy today and said, “That wasn’t my voice. That was something I was taught to say.”

And it hit me—so much of what I believe isn’t even mine.

So I’m starting a new list:

What is mine?

My intuition

My softness

My story

My right to rewrite all of it

Day 23

I tried on a dress I haven’t worn in years.

It didn’t fit—not the way it used to.

But I wore it anyway. Not to feel pretty. Not to reclaim anything.

Just because I wanted to.

And for once, I didn’t look for a flaw in the mirror.

I looked for me. And found her.

Day 24

I journaled in public today.

In a coffee shop. No headphones. No shield.

Part of me still waits for something to snap.

For the floor to fall out.

But another part whispered, “Maybe you don’t have to be ready to feel safe. Maybe you just have to stay.”

So I stayed.

Day 25

I reread all my entries tonight.

Every. Single. One.

Some made me cry. Some made me proud. A few made me ache in places I forgot I had.

But the biggest thing I noticed?

I’ve stopped writing like I’m broken.

Day 26

I reached out to someone I pushed away last year.

Not to fix it. Not to explain. Just to say, “I wasn’t okay back then.”

They responded with softness. Said they knew. Said they were proud of me.

Sometimes healing sounds like: “I understand.”

And sometimes that’s all you need.

Day 27

Today I whispered, “I love you,” to myself.

Not in the mirror. Not in a journal.

Just… while standing in the kitchen, barefoot, waiting for toast.

It wasn’t a performance. It was real.

And it didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt overdue.

Day 28

I’ve started talking to my body like she’s an old friend.

“Thank you for carrying me.”

“Sorry for starving you.”

“I forgive us.”

My thighs are still soft. My arms still shake.

But they’re mine.

And I’m finally listening.

Day 29

I’m not “done.”

There’s no final boss. No healed stamp.

But I’ve learned how to stay. How to feel. How to speak.

I’ve learned how to exist in silence without thinking I’ll disappear.

That’s more than enough.

Day 30

Last entry.

This page doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a threshold.

I walked through fire.

And now, I’m walking into something else. Something unnamed.

Something I don’t have to fear.

I am not what happened to me.

I am who I chose to become after.