Fragment of ME
799 Words
I didn’t break all at once.
I broke in quiet places, slowly, in ways no one could see.
I learned how to keep moving with pieces missing.
How to smile while parts of me stayed behind in moments I never healed from.
I told myself I was fine, because it felt easier than explaining the ache.
Some parts of me grew tired of being strong.
Some parts learned how to disappear when things became too much.
And some parts stayed, stubborn, breathing, refusing to leave, even when I wanted everything to stop hurting.
I didn’t break all at once.
I broke in fragments.
In moments I told myself it didn’t matter.
In silences, I learned to live with.
In apologies I gave even when I wasn’t wrong.
I became a collection of pieces I learned how to carry carefully.
Some I hid.
Some I protected.
Some I pretended didn’t exist.
There were parts of me that grew tired of being strong.
Parts that learned how to disappear when things became too heavy.
Parts that stayed quiet because they were never asked what they needed.
I learned early how to function while fractured.
How to smile while something inside me felt undone.
How to keep going even when I feel incomplete.
No one warned me that survival could look so similar to living.
I didn’t always know I was breaking.
Sometimes it just felt like exhaustion.
Like numbness.
Like losing interest in things that once made me feel alive.
I called it maturity.
I called it growth.
I called it “this is just how life is.”
But deep down, I knew I was leaving pieces of myself behind.
I left parts of me in conversations where I wasn’t heard.
In relationships where I learned to shrink.
In spaces where I felt tolerated instead of cherished.
Each time I stayed silent to keep the peace, a fragment slipped away.
Each time I chose comfort over truth, another piece loosened its grip.
Each time I ignored my own voice, I lost a little more of myself.
I didn’t fall apart dramatically.
I faded quietly.
There were days I felt like a stranger to myself.
Like I was moving through life on autopilot, doing what was expected, saying what was acceptable.
Like my body showed up, but my spirit lagged.
Being fragmented didn’t mean I was weak.
It meant I had adapted.
I had learned how to survive environments that didn’t make room for my fullness.
I had learned to protect myself by dividing, numbing, and minimising my needs.
But fragmentation has a cost.
It teaches you to accept half-love.
Half-joy.
Half-truths.
It convinces you that wanting more is asking for too much.
That being whole is unrealistic.
That broken is just how people stay.
I started to miss myself before I realised I was gone.
I missed my laughter.
My curiosity.
My softness.
The ease I once had with being seen.
I missed the version of me that trusted her feelings.
That didn’t overthink every word.
That didn’t need permission to take up space.
And slowly, painfully, I began to notice the fragments.
Not to judge them.
Not to fix them.
Just to acknowledge them.
I noticed the part of me that still flinched when things got too quiet.
The part that is expected to be abandoned even in safe spaces.
The part that confused distance with protection.
I noticed the parts that stayed, stubborn, breathing, refusing to disappear completely.
The parts that held onto hope even when I tried to let it go.
Those fragments were not evidence of failure.
They were proof of endurance.
Each piece carried a story.
A reason.
A moment where I did the best I could with what I had.
Healing didn’t begin when I tried to put myself back together perfectly.
It began when I stopped rushing the process.
When I learned to sit with the fragments without shame.
When I allowed myself to feel what I had buried.
When I stopped demanding wholeness from a self that was still healing.
I realised I didn’t need to become someone new.
I needed to gather myself gently.
Piece by piece.
Memory by memory.
Truth by truth.
Some fragments would return easily.
Others would take time.
Some would never come back the same way, and that was okay.
Because I am not meant to be who I was before I broke.
I am meant to be who I become after understanding why.
I am learning that fragmentation is not the opposite of wholeness.
It is the beginning of it.
And every time I choose to listen, to rest, to honour what I feel,
I collect another piece.
Not to rush becoming whole.
But to remind myself that even in pieces,
I was always still here.
- Writer
