This is not just a poem.
This is a guide. A mirror. A reminder
for those who carry the storm inside
and wear silence like armor.
At first, the calm was practiced —
an outer garment stitched from necessity,
worn with poise,
even as the soul ached beneath like raw skin under wool.
We are taught to smile, to nod,
to play our part in the world’s quiet opera.
But let me tell you this:
If that calm does not seep inward,
it becomes pressure, not peace.
It becomes a volcano—
silent, magnificent, and doomed to rupture.
So breathe.
Not to silence the chaos,
but to befriend it.
Let breath be your slow companion
through the narrow alleys of pain.
Inhale, as if drawing in moonlight.
Hold, as if cradling a wounded bird.
Exhale, like releasing dust from an ancient jar.
Sometimes music will help —
a soft soundscape that coaxes your nerves into stillness.
But sometimes, even that is too much.
In those moments, sit with the dark.
Let it wrap around you like velvet.
Let it echo your silence,
without asking you to change a thing.
A beloved pet may come.
Their warmth, their rhythmic breath
can anchor you —
but only if your world is quiet enough
to receive their peace.
And what of the world?
The loud, fast, well-meaning world?
How do you say,
“Not today. Not now. Leave me be.”
without shame?
You say it like this:
“I am tending to something sacred.
My healing is private, slow, and not always visible.
Your kindness is felt —
but I need stillness more than sympathy right now.
Let me come back whole.”
You owe no explanation for your retreat.
Recovery is not a show.
Let the next generation know this:
Calm is not just something we perform.
It is something we cultivate —
in breath, in silence, in boundaries,
in knowing when to be alone
and when to let the light in.
We do not escape the pain by pretending it is gone.
We move through it, gently,
until stillness is no longer just a mask,
but a medicine.
And when we rise again —
—and we will—
we rise from truth,
not performance.
-Mani