entry thirty-two

 Sunday, April 27, 2025

    Today, the truth I’ve been trying to outrun caught up with me: self-care isn’t optional — it’s survival. Somewhere along the way, I abandoned my own needs to keep pace with everything work demanded. There’s always more to do, more paperwork, more lessons, more crises, and never enough hours. It feels endless. And administration, despite their good intentions, don’t seem to understand — it is not humanly possible to meet every expectation without breaking down. Now, I am breaking down.

    The emergency room visit, the unexplained chest pain, the aching tooth, the persistent womanly pains — my body is screaming what my mind has been too stubborn to say: Enough. How can I possibly rest when the system never rests?

    In the middle of this exhaustion, I pieced together a wall hanging — my own silent language. Different fabrics stitched to a worn background, overlapping, fraying, dangling. Imperfect, just like me. Each fabric carries its own texture and story — smooth silks beside rough burlap, bright patches dimmed by muted, tired colors. The hospital bracelets are woven into the center, not hidden, but boldly visible, like scars that demand to be honored rather than erased. The pink tulle stretches across the piece like a transparent shield. It softens the harshness underneath without erasing it. It reminds me that protection doesn’t mean hiding—it means honoring my fragility. The tulle breathes, moves, and bends, just like I must, holding space for both my healing and my hurt. Four buttons sit in a cluster, tightly stitched, pulling at the fabric like the weight of the different hats I wear each day: teacher, therapist, nurse, protector. The knots of fabric at the bottom feel heavy in my hands, tight and clumsy, mirroring the tangled exhaustion inside me. And near the bottom — a chicken, almost an afterthought — reminds me that even fragile things persist, that vulnerability and survival live side by side. The bow in the middle feels almost ironic: an attempt to tie it all together neatly, even when the threads of my life resist neatness. This piece holds my burnout, my survival, and my stubborn hope. It’s not polished. It’s not perfect. It’s honest — and right now, that’s all I can offer.

    Looking at this piece, I realize I don't have to fix everything or present a flawless version of myself to the world. I am allowed to be unfinished, tangled, and still worthy. This wall hanging is not just art — it’s a mirror, a testimony to what it means to keep going even when the pieces don’t fit perfectly. My healing will not be linear. My rest will not be neatly scheduled. But it must happen. I owe it to myself to listen, to slow down, to honor the signals my body and spirit are desperately sending. Survival begins with choosing myself.

"Held Together by Threads"

mixed media

Me: I thought I could fix everything, you know. That if I just kept going, if I kept stitching it all together, I’d find some sense of order.

Held Together By Threads: But you see me. I’m not neat. I’m not perfect. You don’t have to be either. You’ve spent so long trying to make everything fit, and yet, here I am — built from the things you thought you couldn’t show.

You: I look at you and see all the things I’ve been avoiding. The knots, the fabric stretching, pulling in every direction. I’m scared sometimes that I’m too far gone to fix.

Held Together By Threads: It’s not about fixing. It’s about existing — as you are, in all the complexity and rawness of it. I hold everything: the threads that didn’t work, the places where I’ve been torn, and the parts that are still soft, still moving. You don’t have to carry it all perfectly. The imperfections are what make us whole.

You: I’m so used to being strong, to being the one holding everything up. But maybe I’m not supposed to do it alone.

Held Together By Threadse: No, you’re not alone. The fragility you try to hide, the exhaustion you try to outrun — it’s all a part of the story. Let me show you that even in the unraveling, something can be created. You don’t have to protect yourself from your own softness.

You: It’s hard to let go. To let myself not be okay.

Held Together By Threads: You don’t have to let go of everything. Just the idea that you need to be perfect. The strength you hold doesn’t have to be silent or unbreakable. It can bend, it can heal, it can breathe. Just like me.