enough

Today

I woke up hungry today, the kind of hunger that isn’t just about food but about being taken care of. I was actually excited for breakfast, which feels embarrassing to admit because it’s such a small thing—but I think that’s the point. I wanted something normal. Something warm. Something that said, you matter enough for someone to think of you.

There was nothing for me.

There never is.

There was food for my brother, though. That part hurt more than I expected. I didn’t say anything. I just went back to my room, carrying that quiet, familiar anger—the kind that sits in your chest and pretends it’s fine until it isn’t.

Then came the lecture. How I’m “used to eating out.” How ungrateful I am. How I should apparently be grateful for not being considered. She said it once, then came back and said it again, as if repetition might turn cruelty into truth. Later, she made something I don’t even like and announced it was “for me,” like a favour I should applaud. I was hungry. I was angry. I felt small.

I tried to sleep it off. That’s usually my emergency exit. But even that wasn’t allowed. No space. No quiet. No permission to fall apart privately.

So I broke.

I cried under my blanket, talking to myself because there was no one else. And then—almost ironically—she asked what happened, only to turn it into another reminder of my role. You’re the eldest. This isn’t how you should act.

Something snapped in me. I yelled back. I said it out loud: I didn’t choose to be the eldest. I didn’t sign up to be numb. I didn’t volunteer to be endlessly understanding while no one understands me.

Why does being the eldest mean I don’t get to hurt?

I’m so tired of acting fine. Tired of holding myself together so others don’t have to feel uncomfortable. Everyone tells me to be strong, to hold up, to manage. No one seems to notice—or care—that I never recovered from the night my dad died.

That night still lives inside me.

I lost my father, and with him I lost my shoulder. The place where fear ended. The place where I didn’t have to explain myself. And instead of being allowed to grieve, I was quietly promoted to “the sane adult.” The one who copes. The one who doesn’t crack. The one who is supposed to be okay so everyone else can breathe easier.

I’m grieving too. I just do it silently because no one left room for noise.

Lately, the thought of growing up terrifies me. Turning 21 feels like a deadline I didn’t agree to. The numbers haunt me because they feel like proof that time is moving forward while something essential in me is still frozen. I’m scared I’ll never get the love or life I wanted. That I’ll wake up one day living exactly the kind of existence I always feared—numb, dutiful, unloved.

I feel so unloved it aches.

And I don’t think I’m scared of adulthood itself. I think I’m scared of continuing like this—carrying grief, responsibility, and loneliness all at once, without ever being held.

Today made one thing painfully clear: I’m not angry because of food or words or one bad morning. I’m angry because I’ve been strong for too long without rest. Because my grief keeps getting mistaken for immaturity. Because my pain keeps being inconvenient.

I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t feel hopeful tonight. But I know this—what I’m feeling is real. It comes from loss, not failure. And writing this down is the only place, today, where I don’t have to pretend I’m fine.

For now, that will have to be enough.