This wasn’t the kind of death anyone else could see. There was no dramatic moment, no funeral, no breaking point. Just a slow, quiet unraveling of the version of me that had held so much for so long—the good one, the loyal one, the one who stayed even when it hurt. I had been the dependable daughter, the accommodating partner. I knew how to give, how to keep the peace, how to disappear just enough to be acceptable. And then, without warning, she began to die.
It didn’t feel like freedom at first. It felt like emptiness. I wasn’t grieving the version of me I’d lost—I was afraid of what would be left without her. Who was I, if not the one who made everything work?
But death came gently. Not as punishment, but as a guide. She said: Let it go. All of it. You don’t need to carry this anymore. And for once, I listened.
What came after wasn’t clarity, it was space. A quieter place inside me, with fewer answers but more truth. I’m still learning who I am without that old armor. But I know this: I’m not lost. I’m just returning to myself.
