I believe resilience matters. I believe we should learn it young, in the ordinary, everyday disappointments of life. In things going wrong. In plans falling apart. In the sting of unkindness. In all the smaller troubles that teach us how to bend without breaking. These moments can shape us positively. They can teach us perspective, endurance and the ability to keep going without collapsing under every minor weight.
But there is a kind of resilience that asks too much.
There comes a point where resilience is no longer a healthy strength, but a survival response to what should never have happened. It stops being admirable and starts looking like conditioning. Like a person being taught to absorb cruelty, injustice and pain simply because life has given them no other option.
That is not something to celebrate.
To ask a person to be resilient in the face of profound harm, abuse or unforgivable acts is not wisdom. It is unfairness dressed up as praise. Yes, resilience may still emerge, because people are remarkable in the ways the survive. But survival should never be mistaken for consent. Endurance should never be confused with proof that the suffering was somehow bearable.
Why do we ask so much of the harmed?
Why do we speak so reverently of resilience, yet so softly of accountability?
Why do we expect people to carry what was done to them with grace, instead of turning our outrage towards those who caused the damage?
Resilience is not always the answer. Sometimes justice is. Sometimes protection is. Sometimes prevention is. Sometimes the real failure is not that someone struggled to recover, but that they were ever placed in a position where such recovery was needed at all.
There are some things in life no one should have to become resilient to.
It’s strange how the weather can hold so many memories within the mind. As easily as the soaking rain can drench you through, the way the sky looks, the smell of the air, and the way light glances across the horizon can pull you back into a place you thought you’d left behind.
This evening, the sun flowed red across the sky. A bright, fiery ball sat above the landscape as if it were watching over everything, shining its light across the last dregs of the day.
But as I stood and watched the sunset tonight, sorrow filled my heart. The mid October chill that spread through the air clung to me, pushing my thoughts to another time. The temperature, the sun, the blueness of the sky, the way the clouds tinged with a threatening pink, it all brought back a flashback so intense, so untimely.
Memories, even the darkest ones, have a way of resurfacing in the quiet moments of ordinary life. This evening was no different. It was mid October, the air cool, the sky heavy with fading light. I was twelve again. The sky looked the same as it did then, and that’s when it hit me, the first night my dad came to my room. Every year, around this time, the sunset brings it back.
I remember standing at my window, looking through the thin net curtain, the world outside washed in that same pale orange light. The cool breeze that had found its way through my open window from that day brushed against my skin tonight as I watched the sky through the transparency of the trees. The imprint of the sky, an echo that ricochets through time. Then his voice behind me, low and certain: “This is all women are good for.” His breath warm against the back of my neck.
Later I sat alone in the bathroom, the sun gone, shadows claiming the rooms. The sting, the blood, bright red against white tissue. I turned it toward the dim light, afraid to switch it on, afraid of being found. Fear kept me there, hostage to the dark.
That night, I lost more than blood, more than tears. I lost something I could never reclaim, something I could never give again.
And so tonight, the pain hit again, as it does almost every year since. In the past, I drank — drank to numb, drank to cope, drank to hide the shame. But tonight I didn’t. Tonight I stood firm. My sobriety needs to remain resolute, because without it, my healing will forever remain stuck in the shadows of the past.
Tonight my heart is breaking. It aches in a way that words can barely reach. The memories, the longing, the exhaustion of holding it all together; it feels unbearable at times. There’s a part of me that still wants to numb it, to make it stop, to reach for the drink that always promised silence. But I know now that silence isn’t the same as peace. So I sit here, heart breaking, hands trembling, but still sober. Because even in this pain, I know it’s the only way through.
So instead, I went to my cupboard. Piles of old books that I used to read to the kids sat peacefully, mismatched and waiting. Slowly, I went through each one, knowing what I was looking for, what I needed. Eventually, I found it. The book was still in perfect condition. Of all the stories, I’d always hated this one the most. The kids would ask for it, and my heart would sink. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.
The book that teaches you that you can’t go over it, and you can’t go under it; you have to go through it. To face the reality of those words while sober felt like one of the hardest things I will ever have to do. But tonight, instead of picking up a drink, I picked up a book and read it aloud, reminding myself of what must be done.
Healing doesn’t come in waves of light or sudden moments of peace. It begins quietly, in the stillness of the same places that once held your pain. Tonight, I didn’t run or hide. I stood beneath a sunset that mirrored the worst night of my life and stayed there long enough to let it pass through me. Sometimes healing isn’t about forgetting; it’s about standing in the memory and choosing to live differently this time.
