What does one do when they feel broken? When you reach that place where you feel like ceramic slipping from a hand and shattering, leaving pieces so scattered that all you can do is sweep them up and wonder what comes next. What happens when your soul feels as fractured as that broken ceramic, when the pieces are so small you’re not sure they can ever be put back together?

People always suggest therapy, talking to someone. And those are good suggestions. But what do you do when those options no longer help? When you have sat in therapy rooms and opened up to people who love you, and still wake up with the same weight on your chest? My family loves me deeply. I am surrounded by people who care, people who want nothing more than to see me happy. In one of my undergraduate classes, I learned that people who end their lives sometimes do so because they feel completely alone. But I am not alone. I have people. I have love. And still, I feel this silent pain that sometimes makes me wonder if it would be better not to feel anything at all.

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The root of all this sorrow is a deep disappointment. I trusted someone I believed with my whole heart would never let me down. And they did. My story is so complicated, so chaotic, that I don’t even know where to begin sharing it. It feels too big, too messy to put into words. But here is what I know without a doubt. I will not end my story that way. My faith as a Christian reminds me every day that this life is not my own. I did not give it to myself, so it is not mine to take away. That belief holds me here, even on days when holding on feels like the hardest thing I have ever done.

So I continue. I exist in this silent pain, carrying it everywhere. Every morning I get up, I go to work, I do my best. I talk to my family like everything is fine. I listen to my son’s voice and try to live as though my brokenness is invisible, as though I am whole and okay. Some days I even fool myself into believing it.

But other days, I am just sitting on the floor, picking up fragments of myself, trying to figure out which pieces fit where. I gather what remains without knowing if I can ever become whole again. And still, I keep going. I keep going because what else is there to do? I hold on to the quiet hope that tomorrow will bring a softer ache. I remind myself of every small blessing and I name them out loud sometimes. The sunlight in the morning. My son’s laughter, which cuts through the darkness in a way nothing else can. Especially on days when the weight of us both not having his father in our lives feels heavier than I can bear.

My faith does not erase the pain. It does not take away the shame or the loneliness I feel even in a room full of people who love me. But it gives me something to hold onto. It gives me strength to carry this weight, even when I don’t want to carry it anymore.

I know there is no clear path to healing. Nobody hands you a map. Healing is messy and slow, and some days it feels like you are going backward. But I hold on to the hope that someday, these broken pieces will form something new. Something different from what I was before, but beautiful in its own way. Something that proves I survived.

Even on days when hope feels distant, I remind myself that being broken does not mean being useless. That there is quiet beauty in what remains, in the cracks where the light gets through. So I keep showing up. I keep allowing myself to feel both the sadness and the tiny moments of joy. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But every second I make it through is a quiet victory. Every breath is proof that I am still here.

I want to regain my joy. I want to go back to being that carefree, peaceful woman who laughed easily and didn’t carry all this weight. And deep down, I believe she is still there. I believe my joy is not lost forever, just buried. So as I move through each day, I look for traces of her. I search for little pieces of who I used to be, believing that peace can return in gentle waves, slowly, softly, like water coming back to shore.

Healing is not a straight line. I know that now. But every moment of laughter I still have, every flicker of hope that sparks in my chest, shows me the light inside is still there. It is waiting. It wants to shine again. And if I give myself time, if I keep showing up as I am, broken pieces and all, I believe I can find my way back. I believe peace will find its way back to me.

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But still, I ask. What does one do when one feels broken? I don’t have the answer. I’m still figuring it out, one day at a time, one piece at a time.

—Franca

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