What happens

When the Body Is Done

I went into the day with hope.

Not big hope. Just the quiet kind.
The kind that says: maybe this will be a normal moment. Maybe we can just be there. Together.

At the same time, there was fear.
I knew how this usually goes.
I knew people would look.
I knew the noise might come.

When it did, I didn’t understand why.
I tried to calm him.
Nothing worked.

I felt watched.
Rushed.
Alone inside a crowded place.

I had to leave.

While I was outside, my younger son was inside, meeting Santa.
I wasn’t there to see his face.
I wasn’t in two places at once.
I couldn’t be.

Something closed in me at that moment.

Later, he told me about it. He was happy.
I listened. I smiled.
Inside, I felt empty.

Not sad in a way that cries.
Empty in a way that feels hollow and heavy at the same time.

I apologised to him. I explained why I wasn’t there.
He understood.

That should have helped.
It didn’t.

When we got home, my body felt finished.
Lifting my older son out of the car felt harder than usual.
He felt heavier.
I felt weaker.

I know he didn’t change.
I did.

There were tears somewhere in my chest and throat but they didn’t come out.
They stopped halfway.
As if my body knew how to feel but not how to release.

I wasn’t panicking.
I wasn’t falling apart.

I was just… done.

For years, I thought strength meant enduring whatever was in front of me.
Not stopping. Not questioning. Just carrying on.

Today showed me something else.

Sometimes the body doesn’t break.
It simply refuses to continue in the same way.

I don’t know yet what strength looks like after that.
I only know that pretending nothing happened costs more than admitting that it did.

For now, I’m listening.