How I Hold Myself When No One Else Does

—or, the architecture of staying

There are days when the world forgets me.
Not out of cruelty—just out of noise.
And on those days, I become my own witness.

I hold myself like a secret.
Like a story still unfolding.
Like a house I’m still learning how to live in.

Sometimes I wrap myself in softness—blankets, music, silence.
Sometimes I hold myself with fire—rage, movement, refusal.

I don’t always do it well.
But I do it.
And that counts.

Holding myself isn’t about strength.
It’s about staying.
Even when no one else does.
Even when I’m not sure I want to.

I’ve learned to speak gently to my own ache.
To say, “I see you. I’m here.”
Even when the mirror feels like the only witness.

There’s a kind of intimacy in solitude.
A kind of truth that only shows up when the room is quiet.
I’ve learned to find myself there.
Not as a consolation prize, but as a home.

Some days, I hold myself with grace.
Other days, I hold myself with grit.
But always, I hold myself with intention.

Because even when no one else does—
I stay.