The Art of Disappearing and Starting Over
A quiet rebellion against who I had to be, and a soft return to who I really am.
Sometimes I think Iāve spent more time trying to quietly leave things than I have actually living inside them. Friendships, jobs, rooms, conversations, Iāve always found a way to exit before Iām asked to. And not in some glamorous movie scene, reinvent-yourself-in-a-French-bookstore kind of way. No. I mean, I slowly start texting less, I laugh more hollowly, I start excusing myself with āIāve just been busyā when the truth is I canāt bear to explain why I feel like Iām falling apart. Thereās this quiet kind of emotional vanishing Iāve mastered, the way I can sit in the middle of a crowd and feel like Iām dissolving. Like the edges of who I used to be are slowly fading out, pixel by pixel, and no oneās noticing. Or maybe they are, and maybe theyāve just stopped asking.
I think it started with exhaustion. Not the kind you sleep off. The kind that comes from overperforming emotionally, socially, even in silence. Iāve been too much for some, not enough for others, and somehow both in the same breath. Iāve kept people laughing when I was barely holding myself together. Iāve shown up when I had nothing left to give. Iāve been the strong one, the patient one, the understanding one, and none of it felt like strength. It felt like shrinking. It felt like performing peace, like setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm, and then apologizing when they still complained about the cold. And one day, I woke up and realized I didnāt recognize the version of me that had survived it, not because I was strong, but because I had gone completely quiet.
There is a version of me that still lives in all the places I almost healed. The apartments I decorated with fairy lights and false hope. The late-night journal entries I never read again. The coffee I made while holding back tears. The way I tried to believe that maybe this time I wouldnāt have to explain myself so much just to be loved. But I always do. I always end up explaining why I overthink, why I flinch when someone raises their voice, why I get distant out of nowhereand the more I explain, the more I hate that I have to. So I started to disappear. Slowly. Intentionally. Softly. Not because I want to stop caring, but because I want to stop begging for someone else to care in return.
The fantasy isnāt an escape. Itās relief. A city where no one knows me, where Iām not someoneās emotional landmark or project or cautionary tale. Where Iām not the version of myself that people expect me to keep being. I want a blank space. I want to walk into a new coffee shop where no one knows how I like my order because Iāve never told anyone. I want to leave group chats and delete birthdays from my calendar, and stop pretending I still care about people who never showed up for me. I want to exist without performing. And maybe that makes me dramatic. Maybe that makes me avoidant. But honestly, Iām tired of being resilient. I want to be free.
Because disappearing isnāt always about sadness. Sometimes itās self-preservation. Sometimes itās the kindest thing you can do for yourself. To pause. To disconnect. To stop feeding the parts of your life that only drain you. Thereās something sacred about not being available. About choosing yourself. About not replying. About putting your phone on Do Not Disturb and letting the silence grow loud enough to become peace. I used to think disappearing meant failure, like I couldnāt hold it together. But now I think it means Iām finally listening to myself.
I donāt want to be unreachable. I just want to be untouched. I want to live slower. Gentler. I want to write again without needing it to be pretty. I want to cry without apologizing. I want to eat breakfast without checking notifications. I want to sit on the floor and talk to no one and still feel full. I want to be able to say āthis hurtsā without someone telling me to get over it. And more than anything, I want to forgive myself for staying too long in places that didnāt deserve me. Thatās the real art. Not disappearing but starting over. Quietly. With grace. With truth. With the kind of self-love that doesnāt need to be loud to be real.
If this finds you at the right time,
And youād like to support my work
You can do that here: Buy me a coffeeāš¤
It means the world, truly.
Knowing when to leave the job, the relationship, the moment may feel terrifying until you actually act upon it. Whilst it may seem overwhelming, it's liberating and oh so needed in this lifetime. If you ever manage or can afford to plot your escape - do it. Don't wait. Don't wait until your feet gets cold. Don't wait until your heart turn to stone.
Yes.. disappearing sometimes is an act of self preservation.. I too wish to disappear sometimes.. lovely piece btw