I am crying
But not in the way you think.
I am the woman who gets things done.
The one who carries the meetings,
remembers the birthdays,
meets the deadlines,
holds the family together,
smiles while saying,
“I’ve got it.”
I am resilient.
I know how to rebuild from ashes.
I know how to turn grief into gratitude,
heartbreak into wisdom,
fear into fuel.
I speak of hope as if I invented it.
I tell others,
“You’ll get through this.”
I remind them that storms pass.
I quote the lessons.
I wear the courage.
I stand at podiums and call it strength.
I have mastered the art of carrying mountains
without anyone noticing my knees are shaking.
I know how to say,
“I’m fine,”
in seven different languages.
I know how to make pain look productive.
I know how to laugh at dinner
after crying in the car.
I know how to comfort everyone else
while forgetting
that I, too,
am someone.
I know how to perform healing.
I know how to wear the mask.
And tonight,
it slipped.
I cried
because the truth finally asked to be heard.
Not the polished truth.
Not the inspirational one.
Not the version with the perfect ending.
The small truth.
The trembling truth.
The truth with tear-stained cheeks
and trembling hands.
I am three.
I am three years old,
looking up at a world far too big,
trying to understand why love sometimes leaves,
why voices become sharp,
why silence feels like punishment.
I am three,
learning that being “good”
might keep everyone close.
I am three,
mistaking responsibility for safety.
I am three,
becoming remarkable
because remarkable children get noticed.
I am three,
becoming strong
because softness felt dangerous.
I am three,
still waiting for someone to kneel down,
hold my face in their hands,
and whisper,
“You never had to earn your place here.
You never had to carry what was never yours.
You were never too much.
You were never not enough.
You were always worthy of being held.”
And perhaps healing
was never about removing the mask.
Perhaps it was about taking it off long enough
for the child beneath it
to finally breathe.
So yes,
I am crying.
Not because I am broken.
But because after all these years
of teaching everyone else how to survive,
the three-year-old within me
has decided
she no longer wants to survive.
She wants to live.
And this time,
I think I’ll let her.
— Nekesha Burrell
To the reader: If this poem found you, may you remember that the parts of you still asking to be held are not interruptions to your healing—they are the reason for it.
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I am crying
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