Scribbles from a soul who almost gave up, but didn’t.
For a long time, I carried a quiet knowing:
That one day, I’ll just be ready to go.
Not in a desperate or suicidal way—
But in an ancient, calm, almost cosmic way.
Like the soul sighing after carrying too much for too long.
A candle not blown out, but gently dimming,
because it knows its work is nearly done.
I think maybe that’s why I never had a child.
Why nothing aligned—wrong time, wrong place,
too much pain, not enough money, too many blocks.
Even when I tried.
Even when I said, “I’m ready now.”
I wasn’t.
I got pregnant once and lost the baby.
Still, a part of me wonders if my body just knew something
my heart couldn’t yet face.
That I wasn’t meant to become a mother.
Not of a child, at least.
And sometimes… I wonder if that baby—short-lived, barely formed—
saved me.
Maybe carrying that small spark of life
shifted something in me forever.
Maybe I wouldn’t have survived motherhood
in the place I was in back then.
Maybe that soul was never meant to stay,
just to remind me that love was still possible.
Now I feel it.
Existential grief.
Not just sadness—
but a deep, aching awareness of all that never was
and never will be.
It lives in my chest like a shadow of a future
I imagined for so long.
I still walk past baby clothes in stores and feel that quiet pull.
But there’s no longer the sting of failure.
Just a hum of grief that I’m finally letting myself feel.
There was a time when even thinking of all this
would send me spiraling.
A time when I couldn’t even cry—
because crying felt like drowning,
and I didn’t trust myself to come back up.
Now, I cry softly.
Tears pool in my eyes and sit there.
Not falling. Just… present.
And even that feels like a miracle.
My body knows peace now.
A strange, surprising kind of peace.
Not the numbness of antidepressants.
Not the emptiness of starvation.
Not the punishment of purging or the chaos of bingeing.
But peace that feels like
dreaming again after years of blank sleep.
Peace that feels like revisiting all those old words scattered across scraps of paper,
hidden in drawers and corners of my apartment—
and feeling stillness instead of doom.
I always thought I wanted a baby
because I needed someone to adore,
to love without fear of abandonment,
to love me back unconditionally.
But I think now…
the child I was waiting for was me.
Maybe I was never meant to birth a child into this world.
Maybe my soul has always known
that this world was too much for me to stay in forever.
And maybe…
maybe that’s okay.
I’ve thought often, quietly, that I will leave this world at 60.
Not from illness or tragedy,
but because I’ll just be ready.
I’ve made peace with that thought, strange as it is.
And I’ve made peace with the knowing
that I don’t want to leave a child behind in a world
that I myself have struggled so hard to stay in.
I don’t say this with sadness now.
I say it with clarity.
Because I’m not gone yet.
And while I’m still here, I’m choosing healing.
I’m choosing softness.
I’m choosing to mother myself
with all the care I once dreamed of giving another.
The girl who cut.
The woman who starved, binged, purged, and punished.
The one who felt unworthy, unlovable,
and always too much or not enough.
I am raising her now.
With food that nourishes.
With words that soothe.
With silence that doesn’t punish, but comforts.
So yes… one day, I’ll go.
But not today.
Today, I am here.
And this time, I’m staying for me.
