The Door Within

I thought healing would look like a finish line

balloons, a cleared throat,

Someone saying, congrats, you made it,

Like trauma is a race you can win.

﹁﹂

Instead it looks like a hallway

inside my chest,

plain walls, no artwork,

a light that flickers when I doubt myself.

﹁﹂

There’s a door there.

No sign. No handle that makes sense.

Just a quiet outline

I used to pretend wasn’t real.

﹁﹂

I avoided it with chores,

with dating apps,

with being “busy” in that frantic way

That feels productive but isn’t.

﹁﹂

One night I sat on my bed

and listened to my own breathing

like it was a stranger

who deserved patience.

﹁﹂

I pictured the door again.

It didn’t glow.

It didn’t promise happiness.

It just waited

which is somehow worse than fear.

﹁﹂

So I stepped closer.

My hands shook.

I expected a room full of nothing,

or a room full of screaming.

﹁﹂

The door opened into quiet.

Not relief yet.

Just space.

A place to set down

What I’ve been carrying.

﹁﹂

I don’t know what comes next.

But I know this:

Empty doesn’t mean hopeless.

Sometimes it means

There’s room for me now.