When Rest Becomes a Threat

When rest becomes

the most dangerous thing you can imagine,

not a lullaby but a loaded weapon,

you learn to walk tired,

to sleep standing,

to run on fumes and guilt and instinct.

Because stillness isn’t peace —

it’s threat.

It’s where the thoughts find you,

where the ghosts slip through cracks in your breath,

where the guilt seeps in like floodwater

under the locked door

you thought would hold.

It’s not silence —

it’s sirens.

It’s your nervous system,

fried from years of vigilance,

screaming

at every kind thing you try to give yourself.

You don’t relax.

You freeze.

You fold.

You flinch at your own softness.

But still —

you are here.

Still,

you are trying.

Still,

there is a thread,

however frayed,

that hasn’t let go.

And maybe

that thread is enough

for tonight.