The Moment the Ice Began to Melt
What happens when you finally stop bracing for impact—and listen to what’s been waiting to be heard.
I was lying in bed, in the dark. The murmurs of a fight still echoed through the concrete walls. Not the one right now—the one from earlier. But it hadn’t ended. Not in me. It kept looping through my body.
I was frozen. Everyone thought I was sleeping. I wasn’t. There was no one to turn to. I imagined monsters crawling out from beneath the bed. My shoulders locked. Jaw clenched. The body bracing for something—anything—to explode. Waiting for someone to yell. Waiting to be struck by sound or silence. But nothing came.
I wanted to scream. I couldn’t muster a syllable. I had lost my voice. The murmurs in the living room went on. What’s happening? Are we going to be okay? We’re always okay afterward, I thought.
And in the morning—I woke up and acted like nothing happened. There was no space to feel. So I became Superman. In my dreams, I flew. Arms stretched forward, defeating the bad guys, rescuing the world. Then I woke—still in bed, arms stiff, heart pounding. The monsters hadn’t left. I fell asleep again from exhaustion. Frozen.
In the morning, we all pretended. Nothing had happened. This is how life works, I guessed: bad things happen. We don’t talk about them. They pass when the grown-ups smile again. That’s the cue. Their moods decide reality. Nobody asked what it felt like to be me.
So I learned: when something hurts, you wait for it to pass. You don’t name it. You don’t ask questions. You stay small. You scan for safety. You survive.
“I feel off,” I said one day. “I’m going for a walk.”
The branches cracked beneath my feet as I entered the forest near my house. The sun filtered through the gossamer. Shadows lay gently across the path. A songbird cried in the distance. Frost melted on the grass. A deer crossed silently ahead of me. I inhaled. Too good to be true.
But that familiar pressure pressed behind my eyes, nudging. I tried to ignore it. I’d walked this path a hundred times. Every day felt different, yet the same. The outer scenery shifted. But inside: the same story. Same thoughts. Same fears. Same frozen ache.
Still, the air was fresh. It stunned me. My heart leapt at the crispness of breath. For a moment—I felt light.
By the time I returned home, that heavy feeling had softened. But it was still there. Hovering in the background. Like a fly at the edge of consciousness. “Just listen,” it whispered.
I’d never listened. Not really. Just enough to push it away. Just enough to bury it under food or noise or work. But today, I asked: “What do you want?” “Just listen,” it said again. “I’ll show you.”
So I sat on my cushion. I breathed. Air brushing the nostrils. In and out. In and out. I scanned my body. There it was again—the collapse in my chest.
“You’re worthless,” the voice said. “You’ll never make it. No matter how hard you try, you’ll fail.”
My instinct was to run. To eat. To numb. To replace pain with disgust. But something in me stayed. I breathed again. Collapse. The sensation of dying. Of vanishing. I asked the feeling: Who are you? What do you carry?
Silence.
I wanted to quit. This is ridiculous, I thought. But I returned. Again and again, to the sensation in my chest. To the voice. You’re worthless.
And then—I said something I had never said before.
“I’m here for you.”
A flashback struck like lightning: I was eight years old. Lying in bed. Frozen. I let the memory open. Not just the image—but the feeling.
Collapse. Like being hunted. Like being prey. Frozen, waiting to die.
And I realized—this feeling had never left. My body had carried this moment all my life. That voice? It was my father’s. “You’re worthless. You’ll never make it. You don’t know anything.”
No one asked me how I felt after a day. No one asked who I wanted to be. What I needed. So I stopped asking too.
I’d lived with a body always bracing. Tense. Ready for danger. At the first sign of rejection—real or imagined—I froze. Emotion disappeared. Connection died.
But now, for the first time, I felt what that little boy felt. I saw him. Tears tracing his cheeks. Eyes wide with fear. He was me. I was him.
I had talked about emotions. Written about healing. But this—this was the moment I felt it.
I looked at him again. He was still frozen. I whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.” He looked at me. Sadness filled his face. I imagined holding him close. And then we both began to cry.
Sobbing. Heaving. I didn’t know when it would stop. But I trusted myself now. Even if I’d never done this before.
I cried until there was no cry left. He fell asleep in my arms. And the collapse… lifted.
I knew it would return. But now I recognized it. Now I knew what it was.
Later that afternoon, I returned to the forest. The sun had melted the frost. Light filtered warmer now. The birds were quieter. The deer was gone. But the branches were still there—softened, breaking gently underfoot.
My heart was full.
The boy had woken. He smiled at me now. Not frozen. Not scared. Held. Seen. Loved.
For the first time, someone had asked him how he was. And this time—he was ready to answer.
He turned to me and asked, “What do I do now?”
I smiled. Looked out into the forest. “Let’s play,” I said.
His eyes lit up. He ran ahead of me into the trees. And I ran after him, laughing, breathless, free.
“I love you,” I cried.
Again and again, like a prayer.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
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Well done, Gabriel. A brave post.