He liked the house,
warmth, a courtesy extended too easily.

I was twelve.
He moved through its rooms as he moved through me,
opening what resisted,
touching what did not belong to him,
with the ease of a man
unfamiliar with consequence.

The house learned him.
So did I.

Years refined my understanding.
I discovered the small, discreet valve,
a most civilised invention,
turning air into a patient accomplice.

I asked him back in winter.
He chose the warmest room.
He always did.

It took almost nothing.
A turn, a closing,
the slow undoing of breath.

He struggled, briefly.
The house did not.

They called it an accident.
I allowed the blame its architecture.

A house that swallows memories,
must, eventually,
be given something worth keeping

.

I grew the oleander in the south bed,
beyond his roses which were all intention,
beyond my lavender which at least pretended to be gentle,
in the strip of earth that belonged to neither.

I discovered the secret of its leaves at forty three,
from a library book I returned on time.
The librarian stamped it. Smiled.
Asked if I had enjoyed it.
Immensely, I said. A revelation.

He drank the tea,
the way he had moved through my life for twenty years,
quickly, without tasting,
certain the cup would always be full.

Oleander does not argue.
It waits, it integrates,
becomes a part of the garden's grammar.

The garden looks better this year.
I don't know why I keep saying that.
I know exactly why

.

At dinner, everything knew its place.
His voice, the cutlery, the silence, me.

I learned smallness until it felt like sense.
Smaller voice, smaller wants, smaller..
Just. Smaller.
Until even my anger had to whisper to exist.

I set the table. I always set the table.
Same plates. Same glass. Same story,
waiting to be told again.

That night, I put something in the wine.
Not much. Enough.
I watched his mouth move through the story
he had told four hundred times,
the one where he was the hero,
the one where I was the background.

He slept before dessert.
I sat there feeling the space return.
The room stayed quiet.
It stayed mine

.

Now, I stand in front of a patient and realise, almost immediately, that the body is only the visible part of the problem. Pain, in theory, belongs to anatomy. In practice, it belongs to circumstance. In the hours that cannot be shortened, the labour that cannot be refused, in the responsibilities that do not recognise injury as a valid interruption.

And I am supposed to treat the symptom as though it was the cause.

I can improve movement, I can reduce discomfort and pain, but I cannot prescribe time in a world that sells it. I cannot recommend rest to someone for whom rest has consequences. I cannot, with all my training, compete with a structure that produces the very pain I am attempting to resolve.

And yet, I am expected to behave as if what I am offering is enough.

So I say the right things: do this twice a day. Avoid strain. Take proper rest. It is a very defined vocabulary, completely detached from the conditions in which it is expected to function.

And they nod and agree, and just for a second, there’s this quiet understanding between us that none of this is as simple as it sounds. But we don’t say it out loud, because if we do, the whole structure of the conversation falls apart.

And then, there’s the part no one likes to talk about, money. Healthcare is expensive, not in an abstract way, not in policy debates but here, in this room, where every additional session is a decision. Healing has become less of a biological process and more of a financial arrangement.

I can see it sometimes, the slight hesitation when I suggest follow -ups. The mental calculation happening behind their eyes: Can I afford this? How long can I keep coming?. And I feel it too. Because I know what they need is time, consistency, space to heal properly, all of which costs money.

And this is where it becomes ugly, for I, unfortunately, am not outside this equation. I have rent, I have bills. It is considered unprofessional to say so, but necessity has a way of ignoring etiquette. So I exist in this strange, uncomfortable middle, where I know the system is failing them, and I am still a part of the system they have to pay.

And when these circumstances does not lead to their recovery as expected, our language remains impeccable. We blame it on non-compliance, irregular attendance, poor adherence. Words that sound clinical but quietly shift the weight back onto the patient. As if the issue was effort. Not access, not affordability, not a life that leaves no room for recovery.

I keep thinking, what exactly is this system designed for? Because it doesn’t seem to be designed for people to actually get better. Its designed to keep things moving, to manage pain just enough to make it bearable, to make it functional and returnable to work. Not resolved, just controlled.

And I stand here, knowing this, still doing my job. Not because I don’t care, but because caring does not dismantle systems. It doesn't pay rent either.

So I adjust what I can. I simplify plans, try to make them realistic. I listen a little more carefully. But I don’t pretend that this is enough anymore.

Because the truth is, this isn’t just healthcare. Its economics. Its politics. Its capitalism deciding who gets to heal properly and who gets to live with less pain instead of none.

And I am in the middle of it,
trying to help.
knowing fully well,
what people most need
is something far bigger
than what I am allowed to give

.

And its convenient, right? If someone is the strongest, you don’t have to worry about them. If someone is untouchable, you don’t have to touch them. If someone always wins, you don’t have to ask what its costing them. Its a very comfortable arrangement, for everyone except him.

And I keep thinking, we do this all the time. Not with infinity and cursed techniques, but with people around us. We decide who they are early on and then never update the file.

This one’s “strong”, this one’s “sorted”, this one “can handle it”, and then we just…leave them there.

No one checks on the strong friend properly, not really. We just assume they will tell us if something’s wrong, which is funny, because the whole point of being “the strong one” is that you don’t.

Its like we reward people for needing less and then punish them the moment they do.

And with Gojo, its worse, because his strength isn’t just something he has, but something everyone else depends on. So now he’s not even allowed the luxury of being complicated. Imagine disappointing people who have built their entire sense of safety around you. Imagine failing, when failure was never an option you were given.

So what do you do? You perform. You become exactly what they need. A little untouchable, a little distant, a little too composed. And people call it confidence, but its not. Its containment.

I don’t think he’s lonely in the obvious way. He’s not abandoned. He’s surrounded by people who trust him, admire him, rely on him…which kind of makes it worse. Because there is no villain here, no one to blame, just a quiet agreement everyone participates in.

And the thing is, admiration makes this kind of distance look beautiful, like you are being respected. But there’s something dishonest about it. Because respect, when it refuses to see you fully, starts to look a lot like indifference in better clothing.

I don’t think people meant to reduce him, they just never needed him to be more than what he could do.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy, not that no one loved him but that whatever they felt for him never required them to understand him.

And that’s exactly when I distrusted it. It did not feel like something I had thought. It felt like something I had remembered.

Do you ever get that? When something leaves your mouth already finished, already approved, already shaped for others to agree with? I recognised the answer before I believed it.

And that is what has been bothering me.

Not the answer itself, but the fact that it did not seem to require me. It arrived complete. I merely witnessed it. Which makes me wonder how often this happens, how often I confuse recognition with authorship. Because if I am honest, I cannot locate the moment where I begin.

I have tried lately, to catch myself in the act of choosing. Not the result, the actual moment. But it refuses to appear. A thought appears, I agree with it, and then I take credit. And by the time I notice it, it is already done. I arrive too late, everytime. So what exactly am I doing when I say I chose?

People speak of free will as though it were obvious, but nothing about this feels obvious to me. If I am only ever becoming aware of my own thoughts after they have already formed, then what part of this is mine? Where do I enter? Or do I only observe? And the more I look, the less stable everything becomes.

Even the things I feel certain about; what I want, what I dislike, what I believe, carry a strange familiarity. As though they have existed before me, as though I stepped into them. Even my resistance to all of this, this very questioning, does not feel entirely original. Which is humiliating, honestly. Imagine thinking you’re original and then realising even your defiance has been rehearsed.

Of course, there are explanations, upbringing, conditioning, society. At home, in the way approval teaches you what to be. At school, in the way correctness feels like reward. Later, in the way certain lives are admired for how easily they can be understood. All of this shapes you, I understand that. But understanding it does not return anything to me. It only makes the structure clearer.

And being a woman refines that structure. Like yes, you’re allowed to have a life now, obviously. You’re allowed ambition, independence, opinions, all of that. But only to a certain point. You must remain readable, coherent, you must not become something that resist explanations for too long. And so you learn to arrange yourself. Not forcibly, elegantly, which is far more effective.

But there are moments, small ones, where something slips. Nothing changes externally but internally, there is this faint misalignment. Everything continues, smoothly and correctly, but I am not entirely convinced that I am the one moving it forward.

And this is where it becomes difficult to ignore. Because despite noticing all of this, despite questioning it, I do not stop. I still answer. I still decide. I still behave as though my life belongs to me in a way I cannot prove. It is almost absurd to suspect you are not choosing and yet continue as though you are responsible.

So I don’t know what free will is. I say it plainly. It does not feel like power. It does not feel like authorship. If anything, it feels like inheritance. Like being handed a life already in motion and being told that it is yours.

And the most unsettling part? I cannot even say that I would choose differently. Because that would require trusting the part of me that chooses. And I am no longer sure that part exists in the way I thought it did.

There is just one thought that remains, quiet and persistent:

that I am not living my life so much as arriving at it,
moment by moment,
slightly too late to claim it,
and just in time to take responsibility for it.

This is the exhaustion of being needed all the time.

I chose a profession that does not permit absence. There is no clear exit from it, no moment that belongs entirely to me. Even when I am supposed to be resting, I never quite feel “off duty”. My time is never fully mine, my energy is always spoken for in advance. I learned, very early, to be available before I learned to be whole.

This is considered a virtue. I am called dedicated and selfless. These are generous words, offered freely and they cost nothing to the people who use them. What they rarely ask is what such virtues demand in return.

I have not been insulted by this profession. But it has shown me my worth in smaller ways. In negotiations, in expectations, in the quiet assumption that my time can stretch, that my effort is simply what I owe. The more I give, the less it appears exceptional. It becomes, basically, what is expected of me.

And there is a limit to how much that expectation is worth.

In this country, care is both essential and invisible. It is demanded constantly but rarely compensated in proportion to its weight. There is an unspoken belief that those who choose healthcare as a profession, must do so with an almost moral obligation, as if the act itself should be enough. As if compassion were an endless resource, untouched by fatigue. As if the person providing it were not equally human, equally limited.

This is where something begins to shift. I still show up everyday. But I have begun, almost without noticing, to calculate. Not just in hours or income, but in what it takes from me. My mind feels crowded, my body feels overused, and my emotional reserves are thinning in ways that are difficult to articulate to anyone who has not lived it.

And then, I keep thinking, what if I don’t want this anymore?

It is an inconvenient thought. It does not align with the years I have invested, or the person I have become. It brings with it a certain guilt, as though leaving would undo something important. As though wanting something different is a form of failure. Years of education, identity, none of these are easy to step away from. There is also the fear of being misunderstood, of being considered ungrateful, of abandoning something that once felt like purpose.

But staying has its own consequences. There is a quieter, insidious discomfort in knowing that I am continuing not out of desire, but out of inertia. The sense that I am participating in my own exhaustion because I have not yet given myself permission to imagine otherwise.

I don’t know what comes next. What I do know is that my life, as it currently exists, is no longer sustainable.

What I find myself wanting now is not extravagance or escape, but space. A life in which I am not constantly required in order to feel necessary. A life that allows me to exist without being of use. A life that does not demand the quiet erosion of self as its price of entry.

Perhaps, this is what it means to outgrow a life, through a series of small recognitions that accumulate over time. Until one day, the question is no longer whether you are capable of continuing , but whether you are willing to.

I am beginning to understand this and within this understanding lies the beginning of leaving, not as an act of failure, but as an act of refusal.

we all agreed

to fear.

it has no body,

but it eats…

time first,

then sleep,

then whatever is left

that used to feel like living.

they just say earn it,

like air was ever something

you had to deserve.

it never asks.

it converts…

hours into numbers,

numbers into permission,

permission into survival.

there is no blood in it,

and still

it circulates…

deciding

who gets to rest,

and who learns

to disappear

standing up.

the sound of my footsteps

when something in me has broken.

she does not know

what breaks.

i bring it to her

already altered,

a quieter grief,

a version that will not

ask her to unlearn me.

she takes it anyway,

with that same certain love

that has never once

needed permission to stay.

and i let her..

i let her believe

this is all of it.

because the rest of me

does not belong

to the language she raised me in.

we live like this,

touching,

missing,

loving with an accuracy

that is never quite true.

and still,

if everything in me

were to come undone,

it is her

i would reach for first..

with a silence

she will recognize,

and a truth

i will not.

and vote for order.

we want change

as long as it looks like discipline,

as long as it punishes

someone else.

the question is no longer

what is right

but who is allowed

to be right.

we watch

as voices shrink,

as difference becomes threat,

as silence begins

to feel like safety.

and still

we adjust.

of course we do.

we always have.

real defiance

would cost us

our place

in what we are defending.

so the word remains-

loud,

repeated,

empty

while we become

exactly

what it was meant to resist.