Where words end, I begin

I couldn't stop them from coming. There was no other option. I've tried and tried and tried to keep them at bay. They've always threatened to destroy me. Try as I might, they win every time. With one last shaky breath, I allow myself to cry. The tears have been pooling in my eyes for the last 10 minutes. My chest heaves up and down, up and down. I feel like the ocean, consistent ebbs and flows. I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. How did I get to this point? There's no one to blame but myself.

I find myself spiraling into a whirlpool of negativity. I'm not good enough, I'm not as far in life as I should be, I'm unlovable, I'm not smart. The phrase, "you are your biggest critic," could not be more true for me. Comparison is the thief of joy, I know. And yet, here I am, comparing myself to the world and beyond.

Call it a quarter-life crisis. Call it self-reflection. Call it depression, perhaps. All I know at this moment is my sadness. I can't think of anything else except my own feelings. That's quite selfish of me, isn't it?

I can't recall a time I didn't feel like this. I think I've hidden it quite well. As an overachiever, no one suspects you might feel sad or unwell. All throughout my life, I've looked at what others had and wanted it. My whole existence has been based upon all people's achievements. There's not a single thing I've wanted for myself. I joined sports teams because I saw my friends in sports. I learned to play the violin because my sister did and I wanted to be as musically inclined as her. I went to college so I could get my degree, get a fancy job, and make lots of money because that's what everyone else did. I see other women wearing clothes I don't particularly like but because it was the latest fashion trend, I wanted it to fit in. Nothing, absolutely nothing in my life has been of my own. The books that fill up my bookshelves. My mannerisms. My jokes. My hobbies. None of it is me. I am not me. I don't know who I am. When you take away all the things that I've stolen from other people over the years, you'll find an empty shell.

I hear footsteps. I try to calm my breathing. The creaking of the bathroom door fills me with panic. It's too embarrassing to be crying in a bathroom in the first place but being caught doing so? I'd have to live in a cone of shame forever.

"Isabel?" a familiar voice whispers. I stay quiet. "Isabel? I saw you run out of class." I remain still. I'm the only one in here meaning, one single-stall door is closed. "Isabel, I can see your shoes. I know it's you." I take a deep breath. The putrid bathroom air fills my lungs. I hesitantly undo the latch and open the door. My professor is standing there, examining my tear-streaked face. "Isabel, what's going on?" I have two choices here. I can tell her the truth and embarrass myself further by crying in front of her or lie and say my dog died. I didn't make a conscious decision but my mouth began talking for me.

"I-I don't feel well."

"How do you mean? Are you sick?"

"Maybe in some sense."

"Come on, let's get you some fresh air." She offers a gentle smile.

We walk out of the bathroom, out of the building, and into the gardens. During the entire journey to the gardens, neither of us said a word.

Once we came across a bench, she sat down and patted the space next to her. The air was fragrant around us. It was spring, the flowers were vibrant and full of life. The air was still crisp. Goosebumps popped up on my arms but the warm sun contrasted it.

"You know, when I was your age, I too felt like I was sick in some sense."

"Really?"

"Of course! There's no human on the face of this planet who hasn't experienced these feelings."

The pressure in my chest started to alleviate somewhat. I stayed quiet.

She offered some more words, "It's not a real sickness though. Our minds, no matter how big and bright or creative they may be, will still make us doubt ourselves. It's inevitable. It's a part of our journey."

"What if I don't want to continue my journey?"

"Well, honey, then that's too bad. The only way out is through."

I've heard that phrase before but never really thought too much of it. The only way out is through. The only option, it seems, is to keep going. Giving up won't eradicate my problems, it will enhance them.

"So, I should just suck it up, tough it out?"

"No, sweetie. You have to be soft."

Be soft. I continued my silence. I wondered, what does it mean to be soft? She answered my question without me speaking it aloud.

"Being soft is the strongest thing we can do. The world is already tough, jagged, and hard. We adapt to our surroundings and become jagged ourselves. The way you're feeling is a product of our world. Be one of the few who choose to be soft, to be gentle with themselves."

At this point, my breath was steady. No more tears filled my eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve it." She gently touched my arm and stood up. All the words she said to me were comforting, yes, but nothing made me feel more seen than that slight arm touch. It was exactly what I needed at the moment. I was in awe over how a touch so small, you'd miss if you blinked, could fill me with such comfort. It was as if she gave me a bear hug. I had forgotten why I was crying in the first place. All I know is, I feel better now.

"See you in class tomorrow."