Between Storms and Silence - Exploring the Space Between Turmoil and Tranquility

Some days, I feel like I’m made of raw emotions—too many, too loud, too deep. And some days, I feel like a ghost in my own life—quiet, invisible, detached. I wish I could explain what that feels like, but even when I try, I wonder if anyone would truly understand.

It doesn’t take much—just a small trigger. A misunderstood word. A sudden change in someone’s tone. A text left unanswered. A cold silence in place of warmth. And before I know it, I’m spiraling.

My chest tightens. My heart starts to beat out of rhythm. My thoughts tangle into worst-case scenarios. I feel like the ground beneath me is no longer stable. I start believing that the people I love will leave me. That I’m unworthy. That I’ve done something wrong. Even if there’s no real evidence—my body reacts as if it’s all true.

And then, I push. I lash out. I say things I don’t fully mean, throw things I later regret, and sometimes I break down to the point where I’m unrecognizable—to others and to myself. I’ve hurt people I deeply care about, not because I don’t love them, but because I’m terrified of losing them. Sometimes, it’s as if my pain has a voice of its own—loud and destructive. On those days, I can’t hold it in. I scream. I sob. I break things. I become someone I don't want to be.

And the worst part? I can see myself doing it, but I can’t always stop. The fear is too strong. The emotion is too intense. It consumes me. And then, when the storm passes, I’m left with guilt. Deep, aching guilt. I remember every harsh word, every object shattered, every tear someone else shed because of me. And I wonder—how could I, someone who feels so much, hurt others like that?

But that’s just one side of me. The other side—the one that lives most days—is calm, caring, and compassionate. I’m the listener. The late-night comforter. The safe space for the ones who are hurting. I’ve helped people through their heartbreaks, their breakdowns, their insecurities. I’ve stayed up late just to make sure someone feels heard, understood, and not alone. I pour into others what I often long to receive myself—unconditional acceptance.

It’s almost ironic, isn’t it? The one who breaks down so deeply is the same one who helps others heal. I’ve been called wise, mature, even “therapist-like.” But they don’t see the nights when I cry myself to sleep, questioning my worth. They don’t see the moments when I feel like I’m a burden. Or the days when I can't face myself in the mirror because of something I said or did during an emotional spiral. I live in extremes. I feel joy like sunlight warming my skin. I feel sadness like a hurricane flooding my lungs. There’s rarely an in-between.

Some friendships have faded. Some, I lost because I was too much. Too emotional. Too reactive. Too intense. Others, I lost because I was too distant. I shut down, cut off, disappeared. And a few—my heart still aches for—were ruined because I unintentionally sabotaged them. I got scared. I pushed them away before they could leave me. That’s the hardest part of it all. The fear of abandonment is so deep that sometimes I create the very ending I dread, just to prepare myself for the pain.

But still—I keep trying. Trying to understand myself better. Trying to learn where the pain ends and where I begin. I’ve come to realize I am not broken. I am just someone who feels deeply, who needs reassurance, and who fears being misunderstood. It’s easy for others to label me as “too sensitive” or “too emotional.” But I know that my sensitivity is also my strength. It makes me aware. Intuitive. Kind. It allows me to connect with others on a level many can’t. It helps me hold space for someone else's pain, because I know what it feels like to carry it.

That duality lives within me constantly. I am both the storm and the calm after it. The chaos and the caretaker. The destroyer and the healer. And slowly, I am learning to bring balance to the two.

I’m learning that it’s okay to pause when I feel triggered. That not every emotion needs a reaction. That I can take space without pushing people away. That I can feel intensely and still respond gently.

I’m trying to breathe through the panic, to soften the self-talk, to be less critical of the moments when I lose control. Because healing isn’t linear. Some days, I manage everything well. And other days, I fall apart all over again. But even on my worst days, I am still worthy of love.

I know now that I am not my outbursts. I am not my mistakes. I am not the friendships I’ve lost or the relationships I’ve ruined. I am the effort I put into becoming better. I am the softness I show others. I am the empathy I give freely. I am the strength it takes to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And on the days when I feel like I’m failing, I remind myself of the people I’ve helped, the friends I’ve stood by, the hearts I’ve comforted. There is more to me than the chaos I sometimes feel. There is light. There is hope. There is growth.

So, if you’ve ever felt like your emotions are too big, your reactions too strong, your heart too heavy—you’re not alone. We are not made to be perfect. We are made to be real. To feel, to fall, to rise, to love. And to keep going, no matter how many times we stumble.

I’m still learning. Still healing. Still growing. And I’ll continue to choose growth—one breath, one moment of peace at a time.