Slow Erosion of Self

It didn’t happen all at once.

No single moment

I could point to and say,

there—

that’s where I lost myself.

It was quieter than that.

More like water

touching stone

day after patient day,

until the edges

forgot

how to be sharp.

I started letting small things go—

opinions

that felt too heavy to defend,

dreams

that needed more space

than the room allowed,

pieces of laughter

that sounded wrong

in the wrong silence.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing anyone would notice.

Just the slow trade

of truth for peace,

of voice for calm,

of self

for staying.

I became easy.

Agreeable.

Low-maintenance

in all the ways

that make a person

hard to find again.

And the strangest part

was how normal it felt.

How erosion

can look like love

when you’re standing

inside it.

Until one day

I reached for myself

out of habit—

and touched

only absence.

No anger.

No clear grief.

Just a quiet question

echoing through

a hollow place:

When did I disappear?

I wish I could say

this is the part

where everything returns

bright and certain.

But truth is slower.

Healing begins

not with becoming whole,

but with noticing

what’s missing.

With naming

the emptiness

instead of decorating it.

With the fragile decision

to believe

a self can be rebuilt

from fragments

no one else

thought were worth keeping.

So now

I gather pieces—

a boundary here,

a memory there,

one honest word

spoken softly

into open air.

It isn’t dramatic.

It isn’t fast.

But erosion

took time.

And maybe

returning

will too.