Many say that there is beauty in the struggle.
I disagree.
Because,
Struggle looks like hoards envelopes of unpaid bills shoved in the corner of the kitchen, next to the microwave, because what cannot be seen cannot be suffered. Struggle looks like empty seats at your award ceremonies and eye bags since you were 8 because all you’ve known is stress and sleeplessness.
Struggle feels like walking several kilometres, with a bag weighing several more, to school when you miss your bus because there is no one to drop you. They are all at work.
It feels like the dread in your throat when you have to check how much money remains in your tired account and then the drop of your stomach once you do.
Struggle feels like sharp, consistent pangs as you run a bread knife gently over your fingers and ask
‘What if…’
Struggle feels like sleeping on cold, hard floorboards for a month or two, because how else could your mama keep a roof over your little head?
Struggle sounds like screaming into a pillow because there is no one else to listen.
It sounds like snarls and shrieks in the next room over, wondering which one will be the final blow and which one will leave you motherless or fatherless
Or both.
Struggle sounds like the card reader screeching ‘declined’ and the awkward mumbling of apologies to the cashier that follows.
It sounds the stutter and shake when you talk about it all.
But,
Resilience looks like slowly chipping away at those envelopes, no matter how many keep on coming. It looks like knowing the seats reserved for your parents will always remain empty, but still getting awards anyways. Resilience looks like meditation and lavender incense before sleep.
Resilience feels like excitement to get your blood pumping and joints moving first thing in the morning because you decide walking is an opportunity, not a burden. Resilience feels like the joy of having just enough to shout your friend boba. It feels like the sigh of relief when you put the bread knife back into the block and pick up a pen and start writing about it instead. Resilience feels like cuddling up with your big sister every night, because no amount of cold could ever take away from how utterly warm and safe she is.
Resilience sounds like the reaffirming self-talk that follows a tsunami of sobs and telling your mum stories about school whilst she muffles her cries with sips of chai. Resilience sounds like the harp-like ‘ding’ from the card reader after your first paycheque.
It sounds like stutter and shake of talking about it all, but talking about it nonetheless.
Struggle is ugly. It is gruesome, excruciating, soul-crushing and purely painful.
Struggle must be ugly, so spine-snappingly and heart-tearingly ugly, so that resilience can be
Beautiful.
Beauty that feels like cool, minty winds of relief, like the golden warm glowing of connection, the nourishing and hearty soup of safety.
Struggle is ugly so that resilience can be beautiful.
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