A Room Where I’m Happy
Written on the 29th June, 2025
Written with Dermot Kennedy humming in my chest
Some days, the world just feels a little too loud for the tenderness I carry.
Today is one of those days.
My body hurts — not in a way that can be iced or stretched out — but in that deep, soul-weary way. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones when you’ve been holding too much for too long, silently, carefully, without dropping anything.
Sometimes, I wonder if the grief I carry is so quiet now that even I forget it’s there… until my body speaks it out loud for me.
This isn’t a post about falling apart.
It’s a post about finally asking — softly, honestly — for somewhere to land.
Somewhere I can lay down the weight, even just for a while.
Today I asked for help.
Not the tidy kind. Not the “when you get a moment” kind.
The real kind.
The kind that comes after you’ve been holding too much for too long and your body starts whispering collapse.
Things at home aren’t good.
I haven’t known how to say that out loud.
Because for so long I’ve been the one who held steady. Who kept the rhythm.
Who said “I’m fine” while everything inside me was cracking.
But today I told the truth.
I reached out to a friend who has a house she’s renting.
I told her I couldn’t pay rent.
But I could offer my hands. My care. My honesty.
I told her I’d bring Lucy and Dora with me,
and I’d take care of what needed tending—so long as I could rest without explaining why I need to rest.
I said I was afraid I might collapse if I didn’t find some space soon.
And I meant it.
There’s something terrifying about asking for shelter when you can’t offer currency.
When all you can offer is your sincerity and your tiredness and the truth of how much it hurts to keep hiding your grief.
I don’t know what she’ll say.
I’m scared she’ll say no.
But I’m more scared of what happens if I keep swallowing my need in silence.
So this is me—
on a Saturday in June,
eyes burning, Dermot Kennedy singing “I know there’s a room where I’m happy / but I can’t find my way to the door” —
finally saying it:
I need somewhere to land.
Not forever. Just long enough to remember how to breathe.
PS:
If you’ve ever had to ask for help with shaking hands and a breaking voice—
If your body started saying “enough” before your mind could admit it—
If you’ve ever loved others so much you forgot to protect your own softness…
I see you.
This post is a hand reaching back.
A whisper that says: you’re not the only one.
— Alex
Alex, this is one of those posts that grabs you by the ribcage and doesn’t let go. The kind of truth that makes everything else on the internet feel like background noise. You’ve written collapse with such clarity it somehow feels like steadiness.
Offering hands instead of rent? That’s the real economy. That’s what keeps people alive when the spreadsheets stop making sense.
If I had that space, I’d let you in without hesitation. No questions, no need to explain the tired, just a soft place to land and maybe some soup that doesn’t ask much of you.
Rooting for you, for Lucy and Dora, and for the friend who (hopefully) knows what a gift it is to have someone show up with that much honesty. May you land soft and be met with the same care you’ve clearly carried for everyone else. 🫶