There are days when I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. I tell myself to keep going, to push forward, to keep believing that there’s light at the end of all this—but some days, the darkness just feels stronger.

It creeps in quietly, settling on my shoulders until it feels impossible to stand. It whispers lies that sound too convincing, telling me that I’m not enough, that I’ll never get out of this place, that all my effort is pointless. And sometimes, I’m too tired to argue back.

I don’t like admitting it, but there are moments where giving up feels easier than holding on. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down, and the thought of just letting go doesn’t seem as terrifying as it once did. The idea of surrendering to the darkness almost feels… peaceful.

But then I wonder—if I give up, who wins? The part of me that wants to heal, that still believes in hope, that wants love and light—that part dies if I let the darkness take over. And even if that hopeful spark feels tiny, fragile, and almost gone, it’s still there.

Right now, I don’t feel strong. I feel broken, tired, and lost. But maybe writing this is proof that I haven’t completely given up yet. That even in the middle of the storm, there’s still a part of me reaching for something beyond it.

The darkness is loud tonight, but I’m still here. And maybe that’s enough for now.