Does it ever get better?

written for the days when you don’t feel like you’re moving forward at all.

I’ve asked this question in so many different ways.

Sometimes out loud, sometimes in silence.
Sometimes with anger.
Sometimes with exhaustion.
Sometimes as a prayer, sometimes as a dare.
And sometimes so quietly that not even I could admit it was a cry for help.

There are days when it feels like the only real question I’ve ever had. The one I’ve been asking since I was old enough to notice that the world felt too heavy for me. That joy never lasted long enough to hold. That the quiet in my head was never really quiet just a soft chaos I learned to live with.

And for every version of “I’m okay” I’ve spoken out loud, there’s a quieter “Does it ever get better?” buried underneath it, trembling like a secret.

I don’t know if people understand what it’s like to live with that kind of question. To carry it with you like a second skin. To go through life doing all the things you’re supposed to do going out, smiling for photos, answering emails, making weekend plans all while part of you is always just... waiting. Waiting for that promised “better.” Waiting for life to feel worth it in a way that doesn’t feel borrowed. Waiting for something to shift. For air to return to your lungs. For the world to feel less like something you have to survive.

And it’s not always dramatic. That’s the strangest part. Sometimes it’s just flat. Like someone turned down the contrast on the world. Things happen, and you react the way you’re supposed to, but nothing reaches your heart the way it used to. Laughter feels distant. Music feels hollow. You reread your favorite book and wonder why it doesn’t hit the same. You look at photos of yourself from happier times and wonder if that person is still somewhere inside you or if they vanished when the lights went out.

You can go a long time pretending you’re okay. That’s what no one tells you. You can master the art of seeming fine. You can show up to things, you can say all the right things, you can even be high-functioning in your pain and no one will know that you cry when brushing your teeth, or that the sight of a stranger’s kindness can make your throat close because you’re not used to being treated gently anymore.

There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn't come from being alone, but from being unseen. From walking through life with your pain hidden in plain sight, hoping someone notices but terrified they actually might.

Does it ever get better?

I don’t know if “better” is the right word.
Maybe what I’ve learned is that things shift. Not always clearly. Not always fast. But slowly. In messy, unremarkable ways.

The pain doesn’t leave all at once. It just stops being the only thing you feel.

You stop waking up every morning with dread in your chest. Or if it’s still there, it becomes familiar less like a monster, more like a weather pattern. You know how to live around it. You don’t panic when it rains anymore. You learn to carry an umbrella, to cancel plans, to sit by the window instead of fighting the storm.

You begin to notice things again really notice them. The way the light moves across your room in the morning. The smell of someone making coffee two floors below. A song you haven’t heard in years suddenly plays, and it doesn’t hurt anymore. You listen to the lyrics and realize you survived what they once reminded you of.

Some days, you laugh without holding back. Some days you cook for yourself. Some days, you leave your phone untouched because the silence doesn’t scare you the way it used to. Some days you cry, yes but the crying feels like release, not defeat.

And yes, there are days when it comes back. When you fall into the hole you thought you climbed out of. When the question returns, louder than before. And it’s easy to think nothing has changed, I’m right back where I started.

But you’re not.

Because now you know that the hole has edges.
You know how to climb.
You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again.
And maybe this time, you’ll be kinder to yourself as you do.

That’s what “getting better” has come to mean for me.
Not escaping sadness, but making room for it without letting it take everything.
Not erasing the past, but learning how to live with it in a way that doesn’t define me.
Not becoming a shiny, perfect version of myself but learning to sit with the mess, hold my own hand, and keep choosing to stay.

It gets better in moments no one sees.

Like choosing to stay in bed five more minutes, not because you’re giving up, but because you’re learning to rest.
Like sending a “hi, how are you?” text even though your mind tells you they don’t want to hear from you.
Like making dinner from scratch on a random Tuesday. Like picking up a book again. Like opening the windows. Like writing one small paragraph, even when everything feels meaningless.

And I know sometimes those small things feel pathetic. You want something bigger. You want proof that life will make sense again. You want someone to guarantee that one day, you’ll be okay, and it’ll stay that way. I wish I could promise you that. I really do.

But what I can tell you is this:

You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re not weak for needing time.
There is no scoreboard. There is no deadline.
You are allowed to take however long it takes to come back to yourself.
You are allowed to mourn the version of you who once believed life would look different by now.
And you are allowed to keep going anyway.

Because you are going.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Even if you stumble every step.
Even if no one claps.

Healing doesn’t look like joy every day. Sometimes it looks like less pain. Sometimes it looks like a little more patience. Sometimes it just looks like staying alive when everything in you wants to disappear. That counts. That’s enough.

So if you’re asking the question tonight in your room, in your head, behind your smile
If you’re whispering, does it ever get better? And you feel ashamed for even needing to ask it again…

I just want you to know:
Yes. In a thousand quiet, complicated, imperfect ways yes.

Not today, maybe.
Not completely.
But eventually yes.

And until then, keep holding on to whatever small things remind you that life still wants you here.
A stranger’s laugh. A favorite comfort movie. The way your pet looks at you. The way music still makes you feel something, even when nothing else does.
The fact that you’re still reading this that you stayed that’s something.

That’s everything.

---

buy me a coffee

---