What I Can Hold - Less “if.” More “here.”

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Some days feel calm. Lately, they’ve felt relaxed on the surface, but inside, it's been a rollercoaster.

Fire outside, burning low. Mountains stand quiet. Inside, the only light was my phone. I kept reading the same words like they might change if I stared long enough. They didn’t. It’s strange how small lines can fill a whole night. You stop feeling time. You forget you’re hungry. Your eyes sting, and you keep going anyway.

Cool air. A hint of smoke. The moon looking back. I stood there and let the silence do what it does. My chest loosened. Not healed. Just a little less tight. I could finally hear my own breath. I watched it in the cold, a small cloud rising and fading. It made the night feel simple again, just breath, just ground, just sky.

Sometimes it’s as simple as this: step out of the loop, into the night, and let the world be bigger than your thoughts. Hands open. Feet on earth. Nothing to fix in that moment. Just a body remembering it exists.

Feelings arrived fast. The rest of life didn’t. That gap between how things feel and what can actually be done, that’s where everything twists. It sits in the ribs. It climbs the throat. It turns small decisions into heavy ones. Even choosing sleep feels like a negotiation.

I keep coming back to this: feelings and choices are not the same. Feelings can be true and strong. Choices move more slowly. They need time, space, and courage. And in the middle, the mind loves the word “if.” If this. If that. If later. “If” doesn’t live here. It drags you into a future that might never come. It keeps you on pause. I’m trying to stay where my feet are. One step. One breath. One honest move at a time.

There were light moments. Hours moving on their own. Tension breaking. Quiet smiles say more than any long talk. Not too close, not too far. Space when it was needed. Presence when it mattered. “Happiness is beautiful.” That line stayed with me. There’s peace in watching someone soften into the moment—the face relaxes, the shoulders drop, the laugh comes easy. The air changes. For a second, my shoulders forgot how to carry the day. That same quiet magic, the kind you can’t stage, only notice.

Some days opened like a window. The pace slowed. I’ve been in places like that many times with a camera, but this time I kept my hands open. I wanted to feel it, not just frame it. I let the moments happen and stayed with them. It was enough. My hands didn’t need to hold anything to know it was real. Later, when I looked back at what I did capture, I was glad, simple frames, natural light, nothing forced. The kind you keep because they feel like air, not because they look perfect.

And yet, there it was, the quiet strain of holding back when you want to reach. Holding back when everything in you wants to reach. That’s where the pain lives. It’s hard to breathe in a room like that. Your body knows before your mind does, jaw tight, hands restless, breath caught too high. So I drew a line: stay my size, stay honest, don’t vanish to make things easier. If distance has to happen, say it clean. No half-words that keep the door half-open. No pretending that quiet equals peace when it’s really pressure.

There were hard days. A weekend that tightened the chest. Close, but quiet. Real, but muted. It takes a toll. The kind that leaves you tired in your bones the next morning. Coffee doesn’t fix it. Work doesn’t cover it. You move more slowly, and you don’t know why until you remember: some feelings don’t leave when the moment ends, they echo.

I won’t pretend this was ever just rush or heat. It was quiet and alive. Ease like air. A day that could stay simple. Space that didn’t mean distance. Nearness that didn’t drown. That kind of connection is rare. It mattered. It still does. Not as a story to hold onto, but as a way the body remembers what balance feels like.

The body still reacts. The silence after a door closes. A room holding a laugh that isn’t there anymore. Sometimes I still hear it and turn my head like someone just walked in. It’s small and sharp at the same time. On those days, I keep life small. Eat, move, work, breathe. Step outside. Feel the air. Watch the light shift on the ground. Touch wood, stone, water, anything real. Let the body do what the mind can’t.

I try to give myself good inputs: sunlight, clean food, a slow song that doesn’t push me, a shower long enough to loosen the shoulders, ten minutes with my eyes closed in a room that doesn’t ask for anything. It’s not a cure. It’s how you stay human when your head wants to run.

Other days are softer. The inner noise fades. No demand for answers. And it’s easier to hold two things at once: gratitude for what was real, and a clear boundary for what is needed. Holding both isn’t a contradiction. Its growth. The heart can carry both the pain and the thanks. One doesn’t cancel the other. They just take turns being louder.

I think about the small signs. How steadiness shows up in the body first: breath lower, shoulders down, jaw soft, eyes warm. How chaos shows up, too, tapping feet, tight throat, thoughts that jump. I’m learning to listen to those signals like they’re a language. They tell me when to step in and when to step back. They tell me when “more” is just noise.

Lately, presence has meant paying attention. The small shift in a face when it finally relaxes. The true laugh. The way a room softens when pretending stops. Attention is a kind of care. It says, “I see you as you are.” Being seen like that feels like home. And that’s what I want to offer back: to be there for the small, honest parts of someone that only show up when they feel safe.

I notice the things that take me out of the moment, the “if” that lives in the future, the habit of reading between the lines instead of the line that’s already there, the urge to fold myself small so nothing has to change. Those moves pull me out of the present. And the present is the only place anything honest can grow. When I catch myself drifting, I do something simple: count three sounds, name three colours, feel three points of contact, feet, hands, back. It’s basic, and it works.

There’s another piece I keep learning: soft doesn’t mean weak. Soft is the voice that tells the truth without shouting. Soft is steady breath during a hard conversation. Soft is choosing silence when silence is kinder than more words. Soft is strong enough to stand there and not turn away.

I think about time differently now. Not as an enemy to beat, but as a filter. Time shows what holds and what falls away. You don’t have to push everything forward. Some things move on their own. Some things stop on their own. Your job is to stay honest enough to see which is which.

I don’t have perfect answers. I don’t need them. What I can hold is simple: the ease was real. Being seen was real. I’ll keep those. If truth and choice meet one day, I’ll be there with open hands. If not, I’ll still stand with the truth in my hands. Even if my voice shakes a little. Even if the night is long. Breath by breath is still a way through.

Thank you for reading. If your days have felt heavy, too, keep them small. Breathe. Step outside. Notice one good thing. Choose what keeps you steady. Less “if.” More “here.”