or a long time, I believed that strength meant endurance.
To hold everything together. To move forward without stopping. To live as if nothing inside was breaking.
From the outside, everything looked stable. Even successful.
But inside, something was slowly disappearing — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly leaving.
What frightened me most was not pain, but silence.
The kind of silence where you stop asking yourself questions because you are afraid of the answers.
I realised that you can lose yourself not in chaos, but in routine.
Not in collapse, but in constant self-control.
When a woman lives correctly, responsibly, “as expected” — but no longer feels herself inside her own life.
I began to write at the moment when continuing like this became impossible.
When listening felt more important than enduring.
When returning to myself seemed harder — and more honest — than continuing to move forward.
Some thoughts do not ask to be shared immediately.
They ask to be lived through first.
These reflections later found their form as a book.
Soon, it will exist on its own.
