I Can Hold My Own Hand Through It

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There are moments when I wish someone would just see it.

See what I’m carrying.
Understand what I’m feeling — without me needing to explain it.
Sit next to me and say, “You don’t have to hold this alone.”

And maybe, one day, someone will.

But until then, I’m learning something powerful:

I can hold my own hand through it.

I can speak to myself with gentleness.
I can remind myself I’m doing my best.
I can take a walk, breathe, cry, or rest — not to fix it, but to be present with it.

That presence means something.

It tells the younger parts of me that I won’t abandon them now.
That I don’t need to wait for rescue.
That I’ve become the kind of man who can sit with pain without shutting down.

And that’s the real healing.

Not needing to be fixed — just needing to be held.

Even if I’m the one doing the holding.
Especially then.