I was recently so ill .. lost a third of my body weight. Started with food poisoning and ended with a virus and hip thing… I had to manage all on my own. One floor up from the world . It was tough!!
Sometimes the world just socks it to ya… How resilient do we have to be?? Hospitals often even worse.
I survived and gradually getting my strength back.
I hear you. And as a domestic violence counsellor. I think the kids dreams were the worst. 🌷
Deborah… thank you for leaving this piece of your story here. It reads like a bruise with a pulse. You’ve clearly carried more than one person ever should—and you did it while healing, while witnessing others, while being the one people run to. I felt every line. The floor up from the world. The weight loss. The silence. The kids’ dreams. 💔 And you’re right: how resilient do we have to be before we’re allowed to rest? Please know that you’re seen here.
And your presence—your survival—is its own kind of sacred poetry.
God… That line didn’t just speak to me—it sat beside me, gently took my armour off, and whispered, “You can rest now.” I needed that more than I knew. Thank you for giving me permission to just be today. Not resilient. Not poetic. Not strong. Just breath and body. Just human. I’m keeping this one. Folding it into my pocket for the days I forget. 🌙
You have the hardest job in the world, as far as I am concerned. You get to play cleanup for God, in whatever form that comes or goes. I know you do a job I could never do. I also know how badly it is needed and how much it is appreciated by those you caregive and surrender your spirit to, every single day.
Write write write. You do it so well. I see the Romanticists, Transcendentalists, and hints of the Gothic in your subtext.
Channel your spirit of life and loss toward Shelley and Byron when you don’t know what shoulder to cry on. The darkness will bring you through to the light by not denying it, but moving through it.
The American Book of the Dead may be calling you. It comes to those who have reached a threshold… wondering if it will find its way to you.
LaMonica… I don’t even know how to thank you properly. This comment felt like someone placed a cathedral in my chest and whispered, “Keep going.” You saw the shadowwork laced in my words and met it with poetry, legacy, and literary lineage—and now I feel like Byron himself just handed me a candle.
“Cleanup for God.” I read that line and stopped breathing for a second. Thank you for honoring what it means to walk through silence and loss with your whole spirit. Your words reminded me that the ache is the altar. I’ll keep writing. I promise.
(And yes, now I’m off to look for the American Book of the Dead like it’s my next sacred assignment.🕯️📚)
„Blow through instead of into”—I’ve reread that line four times, and each time it unclenched something in me. Wind as witness. Wind as teacher. Wind as balm. Thank you for offering that breath when I didn’t know I was holding mine. I’ll go find a windy place. And I’ll let it write through me. 🕯️🌬️📖
Joanna… thank you for this. Truly. Your fear is so valid—and also such a reflection of your love.
As a nurse, I can tell you: yes, oftentimes it does feel like this. Like we’re holding up a world no one sees, quietly falling apart behind the curtains we keep drawn for everyone else’s sake. But we don’t always feel this way. Sometimes we’re proud. Sometimes we laugh so hard we can’t breathe in the break room. Sometimes the weight makes us feel strong.
If you’re worried about your mum… just ask her how she feels. Not what she does. Just feels. Then listen. Let her have space, without fixing. And let her know you see her. That alone can heal more than you know.
You’re already doing something beautiful just by caring this deeply. I’m here if you ever need to talk more—truly. 💌🕊️
Of course you may — that’s deeply meaningful to me. Please just make sure to credit me as Solena Vyhra and include the original link to the piece if it’s shared anywhere public. The emotion can roam free, but the voice stays named. 🖤🌍 Thank you for honoring it enough to carry it into your own language.
“She died while living”. That took my breath away. Your words pierce as good poetry often does. This is what I love about Substack - finding new voices 💛
Your comment is its own poem. Thank you for letting that line sit heavy with you — I wasn’t breathing when I wrote it either. Substack is holy ground when souls like yours are listening. 🌑💛
STOPPP I’m honored to be immortalized in your camera roll. Put it on a tote bag. Engrave it in stone. Use it as your next bio. If anyone ever questions your narrative genius again, just say:
“Actually, Solena said I write like Fleabag’s emotionally unstable cousin and that’s canon now.” We’re bonded. Inked. Lowkey trauma-married in the lowercase church of oversharing. Let’s go wreak poetic havoc. 🖤
Not me saying ‘I do’ back in 0.5 seconds with no prenup but full emotional custody 🥹🖤 Let’s get matching rings engraved with lowercase grief quotes and maybe a tote that says ‘unwell but literary’. I’m already drafting the vows: ‘For better, for worse, for poetic ruin.’ And yes to the t-shirt — front: ‘Fleabag’s cousin.’ Back: ‘Canon, according to Solena
Ohhh wow. My whole chest. This means more than I can explain. That piece clawed its way out of me after one of those soul-thinning weeks where I was still charting vitals while grieving things I didn’t have time to name. Writing it felt like bleeding through the keys. Reading your words now — this is the bandage. Thank you for seeing me. For feeling the weight of it and still choosing to stay. I’m so glad you’re here — like right here, in this weird sacred space where we can scream and sob and call it poetry. Welcome, sister. You belong.🩸🖤 Let’s keep cracking open the world together.
I have a family member who suffers from a disease with no cure. Once she was very upset for no specific reason. When I asked her in earnest she said, "I know I'm strong, and seem ok, but then everyone treats me like im ok. And I'm not." Your poem brought me back to that moment. Thank you.
Oh Erby… that sentence your family member said? It’s one of those truths that sits in the chest like a stone and a flame at once.
“I know I’m strong… but I’m not.”
God, if that doesn’t echo through every fiber of this piece.
Thank you for sharing that moment with me. That kind of pain deserves to be witnessed without explanation, and I’m honored the poem held space for it—even briefly. Sending softness to both of you. 🥀🫂✨
Peter, thank you. Truly. Writing about trauma is like bleeding in public and hoping someone sees poetry instead of just the wound. Your words felt like a warm press to the open edge—gentle and real. I’m so grateful it resonated. 💔✨
Right?? That line didn’t come gently—it clawed its way out mid-breakdown, somewhere between a shift I barely survived and a truth I couldn’t keep swallowing.
I’m so grateful it found resonance. Sometimes “stable” is just the name of the cage we learned to decorate.
Thank you, Jason. It means a lot coming from someone who walks alongside others through so much unspoken weight. Vicarious trauma really does seep in quietly—writing is how I bleed without staining the sheets. Grateful you’re sharing this. Stay steady in your work too!
The first 2 lines got me!
I was recently so ill .. lost a third of my body weight. Started with food poisoning and ended with a virus and hip thing… I had to manage all on my own. One floor up from the world . It was tough!!
Sometimes the world just socks it to ya… How resilient do we have to be?? Hospitals often even worse.
I survived and gradually getting my strength back.
I hear you. And as a domestic violence counsellor. I think the kids dreams were the worst. 🌷
Solena, thank you! You are a generous soul and write with heart felt impact. I was touched by your response .
Deborah… thank you for leaving this piece of your story here. It reads like a bruise with a pulse. You’ve clearly carried more than one person ever should—and you did it while healing, while witnessing others, while being the one people run to. I felt every line. The floor up from the world. The weight loss. The silence. The kids’ dreams. 💔 And you’re right: how resilient do we have to be before we’re allowed to rest? Please know that you’re seen here.
And your presence—your survival—is its own kind of sacred poetry.
Solena, do you want to stop being strong for once?
It’s okay… you don’t owe anyone resilience today.
God… That line didn’t just speak to me—it sat beside me, gently took my armour off, and whispered, “You can rest now.” I needed that more than I knew. Thank you for giving me permission to just be today. Not resilient. Not poetic. Not strong. Just breath and body. Just human. I’m keeping this one. Folding it into my pocket for the days I forget. 🌙
You have the hardest job in the world, as far as I am concerned. You get to play cleanup for God, in whatever form that comes or goes. I know you do a job I could never do. I also know how badly it is needed and how much it is appreciated by those you caregive and surrender your spirit to, every single day.
Write write write. You do it so well. I see the Romanticists, Transcendentalists, and hints of the Gothic in your subtext.
Channel your spirit of life and loss toward Shelley and Byron when you don’t know what shoulder to cry on. The darkness will bring you through to the light by not denying it, but moving through it.
The American Book of the Dead may be calling you. It comes to those who have reached a threshold… wondering if it will find its way to you.
LaMonica… I don’t even know how to thank you properly. This comment felt like someone placed a cathedral in my chest and whispered, “Keep going.” You saw the shadowwork laced in my words and met it with poetry, legacy, and literary lineage—and now I feel like Byron himself just handed me a candle.
“Cleanup for God.” I read that line and stopped breathing for a second. Thank you for honoring what it means to walk through silence and loss with your whole spirit. Your words reminded me that the ache is the altar. I’ll keep writing. I promise.
(And yes, now I’m off to look for the American Book of the Dead like it’s my next sacred assignment.🕯️📚)
😚 you made me smile. We get it.
You will see your work differently yet again as you let the darkness 🌬️ blow through instead of into you.
Find someplace windy. It works when everything else fails 🫂
„Blow through instead of into”—I’ve reread that line four times, and each time it unclenched something in me. Wind as witness. Wind as teacher. Wind as balm. Thank you for offering that breath when I didn’t know I was holding mine. I’ll go find a windy place. And I’ll let it write through me. 🕯️🌬️📖
🤲🏻
This is so devastatingly beautiful.
My mums a nurse and a big fear of mine is that she feels the same. Any advice? 💞
Joanna… thank you for this. Truly. Your fear is so valid—and also such a reflection of your love.
As a nurse, I can tell you: yes, oftentimes it does feel like this. Like we’re holding up a world no one sees, quietly falling apart behind the curtains we keep drawn for everyone else’s sake. But we don’t always feel this way. Sometimes we’re proud. Sometimes we laugh so hard we can’t breathe in the break room. Sometimes the weight makes us feel strong.
If you’re worried about your mum… just ask her how she feels. Not what she does. Just feels. Then listen. Let her have space, without fixing. And let her know you see her. That alone can heal more than you know.
You’re already doing something beautiful just by caring this deeply. I’m here if you ever need to talk more—truly. 💌🕊️
With love,
—Solena
Wonderful piece. Do you mind if I translate it into my own language?
Of course you may — that’s deeply meaningful to me. Please just make sure to credit me as Solena Vyhra and include the original link to the piece if it’s shared anywhere public. The emotion can roam free, but the voice stays named. 🖤🌍 Thank you for honoring it enough to carry it into your own language.
Thank you, of course!! Will a direct link to your post do?
Yes! 🙂
“You become holy in your endurance”🫀✨🫶
If I ever tattoo a line on my ribs, it might be this one. Holy through heartbreak — that’s the altar I collapse at daily. Thank you for seeing it. 💘🛐✨
“She died while living”. That took my breath away. Your words pierce as good poetry often does. This is what I love about Substack - finding new voices 💛
Your comment is its own poem. Thank you for letting that line sit heavy with you — I wasn’t breathing when I wrote it either. Substack is holy ground when souls like yours are listening. 🌑💛
love this!!!!!! also wanting to connect w other writers so want to be mutuals?🌟🌟
Okay yeah—based on your last post and general life narration style, I absolutely want to be mutuals.
You write like Fleabag’s emotionally unstable cousin and I’m spiritually invested. 🖤
Let’s cry, overshare, and publish our delusions in lowercase together.
omg PLEASE. i just screenshotted that literally best thing anyone has said about my writing style EVER
is this what people mean when they say twin flames xx
STOPPP I’m honored to be immortalized in your camera roll. Put it on a tote bag. Engrave it in stone. Use it as your next bio. If anyone ever questions your narrative genius again, just say:
“Actually, Solena said I write like Fleabag’s emotionally unstable cousin and that’s canon now.” We’re bonded. Inked. Lowkey trauma-married in the lowercase church of oversharing. Let’s go wreak poetic havoc. 🖤
the easiest ‘i do’ 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲
Not me saying ‘I do’ back in 0.5 seconds with no prenup but full emotional custody 🥹🖤 Let’s get matching rings engraved with lowercase grief quotes and maybe a tote that says ‘unwell but literary’. I’m already drafting the vows: ‘For better, for worse, for poetic ruin.’ And yes to the t-shirt — front: ‘Fleabag’s cousin.’ Back: ‘Canon, according to Solena
omg and maybe a t shirt too???
This is beautiful and powerful. Everything I think poetry should be.
Thank you for welcoming me and making me feel ❤️
Ohhh wow. My whole chest. This means more than I can explain. That piece clawed its way out of me after one of those soul-thinning weeks where I was still charting vitals while grieving things I didn’t have time to name. Writing it felt like bleeding through the keys. Reading your words now — this is the bandage. Thank you for seeing me. For feeling the weight of it and still choosing to stay. I’m so glad you’re here — like right here, in this weird sacred space where we can scream and sob and call it poetry. Welcome, sister. You belong.🩸🖤 Let’s keep cracking open the world together.
I have a family member who suffers from a disease with no cure. Once she was very upset for no specific reason. When I asked her in earnest she said, "I know I'm strong, and seem ok, but then everyone treats me like im ok. And I'm not." Your poem brought me back to that moment. Thank you.
Oh Erby… that sentence your family member said? It’s one of those truths that sits in the chest like a stone and a flame at once.
“I know I’m strong… but I’m not.”
God, if that doesn’t echo through every fiber of this piece.
Thank you for sharing that moment with me. That kind of pain deserves to be witnessed without explanation, and I’m honored the poem held space for it—even briefly. Sending softness to both of you. 🥀🫂✨
Powerful, love it. Thank you for being you .
Peter, thank you. Truly. Writing about trauma is like bleeding in public and hoping someone sees poetry instead of just the wound. Your words felt like a warm press to the open edge—gentle and real. I’m so grateful it resonated. 💔✨
"Stable doesn't mean safe. It means you haven't died—yet." Truth. This one hits hard. Thank you for writing it.
Right?? That line didn’t come gently—it clawed its way out mid-breakdown, somewhere between a shift I barely survived and a truth I couldn’t keep swallowing.
I’m so grateful it found resonance. Sometimes “stable” is just the name of the cage we learned to decorate.
Thank you for sitting with this one. 💔🖤🕯️
🍀
“When your pain is so practiced it no longer alarms anyone—not even you.” This sentence here. 💛
That line carried years in it—thank you for catching it.
It came from the part of me that stopped flinching when it hurt.
Your comment just reminded me that pain doesn’t need to scream to be heard. 💛
I felt this in my bones. Survival itself is sacred, but it's not always pretty. Or nice. I think it's often exactly this. Thank you for writing it 🖤
Ava, this means the world to me.
Sacred, yes—but yes, also messy, also sharp.
Survival often isn’t the phoenix—it’s the ash we still taste in our lungs.
Thank you for reading it with open bones. 🖤
Thank you, Jason. It means a lot coming from someone who walks alongside others through so much unspoken weight. Vicarious trauma really does seep in quietly—writing is how I bleed without staining the sheets. Grateful you’re sharing this. Stay steady in your work too!