I was just trying to get home. That’s it.
But the wind had other plans.
Branches were snapping off trees and landing in the road—everywhere. One slammed into my windshield. Another blocked the lane completely. At one point, something that looked like it had fallen off a truck—some kind of wooden structure—was splintered across the road in massive, jagged pieces.
I had to cross a median to avoid it.
There were cars that couldn’t move because there was nowhere to go. We weren’t just avoiding puddles—we were weaving around debris. Tree limbs. Broken pieces of whatever the storm had ripped loose. Cops were bouncing between intersections, trying to direct traffic or respond to whatever the wind knocked over next.
It felt like every ten seconds, the road in front of me changed.
And still, I didn’t feel scared.
I felt alert. Present. Awake.
Every decision required focus. Every turn demanded strategy. It was exhausting, but I was in it—fully in it.
And it hit me:
This is what life does when it gets hard.
It wakes us up. It makes us pay attention.
You ever get told you look mad when you’re not?
There’s this thing people do—resting bitch face (RBF), right? That look you get when you’re deep in thought or just existing, and suddenly someone asks if you’re okay, or worse, tells you to smile.
But sometimes that look… isn’t just your face.
Sometimes it’s your whole life.
From the outside, everything might look fine. You’ve got the job. The apartment. You show up every day. You handle responsibilities.
But inside?
It’s work. It’s weight. And most days, it feels like moving through your life in overdrive—carrying more than anyone sees, second-guessing every step because all you can focus on are the mistakes.
That’s what my life feels like sometimes.
Like it has resting bitch face.
And when you’re stuck in that space long enough, the silence of not being seen or appreciated out loud? It hits different. It stings deeper.
Because when all you see are the things you got wrong, you start to wonder if that’s all anyone else sees, too.
Sometimes the overwhelm catches up to you.
Sometimes you feel like you’re drowning in it.
And panic kicks in—not just emotional panic, but life panic.
The kind that makes you want to tear it all down or run away or fight just to be heard.
But life isn’t about escaping panic.
It’s about learning how to respond to it before it derails everything else.
It’s about finding the stillness beneath the noise. The breath before the reaction. The grace to not just feel something—but understand why you’re feeling it.
Maybe happiness doesn’t always look like joy.
Maybe sometimes, it looks like still fighting when you’re tired.
Maybe it looks like not falling apart, even when no one’s clapping for you.
Maybe it looks like discipline. Or tears. Or simply staying.
The truth is, sometimes even being around people still feels lonely. Because not all connection is created equal.
You can be surrounded and still feel unseen.
You can share space and still feel untouched.
It’s not just about human connection—it’s about the right kind. The deep kind. The kind that feels like a tether.
Where your pain doesn’t make someone flinch.
Where your quiet moments don’t go unnoticed.
Where you don’t have to explain yourself, because they already get it.
You don’t find that everywhere.
And when you don’t have it, everything else feels… heavier.
And when you’re already in that space—overworked, overwhelmed, stretched thin—the silence is deafening.
You start to wonder if your value is only tied to what people can measure.
If you’re only as good as your last win.
And when they don’t say anything?
It doesn’t just feel like a miss.
It feels like confirmation of every fear you’ve been fighting.
That’s where the spiral starts.
That’s when emotions kick in fast.
And if you’re not ready for them—if you haven’t built the inner structure to hold them—they’ll blow the doors off.
Because here’s what I’ve learned:
Drama is what happens when emotions break in uninvited.
When they come crashing through windows you forgot to lock because you assumed you were safe.
You weren’t expecting the storm, so you didn’t prepare.
And now they’re making a mess.
But grief…
Grief is what happens when you open the door.
You let the emotions in—not to destroy the place, but to sit with them. Hear them. Learn what they’re here to teach you.
You don’t hide from them. You host them.
You do the work.
And in doing so, you keep the chaos from taking over.
That’s the difference.
One leaves you wrecked.
The other makes you whole again.
Some people give you space to fail.
Others give you space to figure it out.
And there was someone in my life who did exactly that.
Someone who gave me room—not because I wasn’t capable, but because they knew I was.
To a lot of people, it might’ve looked like I was getting special treatment. Like I wasn’t taking as many calls. Like I was skating by.
But sometimes numbers do lie.
At the end of the day, yeah—I wasn’t “taking calls,” technically.
But if you had been sitting next to me during those eight hours, you’d know: I was on the phone all day. Talking to clients. Answering direct requests. Handling situations that didn’t always show up on paper.
Some of those clients would only talk to me. Not because I asked for that, but because I built that trust.
I wasn’t waving that around.
I was just doing the work. Quietly. Consistently.
Trying to keep up and grow at the same time.
What looked like breathing room wasn’t a free pass.
It was intentional.
It wasn’t a life raft tossed into the chaos—it was a stretch of calm water so I could learn how to swim.
And that space, that trust, that subtle but steady belief in me… it changed everything.
And maybe the most important thing he ever told me—
was to never apologize for being myself.
Kindness doesn’t always look loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet. Steady. Simple.
And sometimes it gives you just enough room to rise.
On that same drive—the one with the falling branches and blacked-out traffic lights—a song came on.
“Too Young to Burn.”
I’ve heard it before. But in that moment, it hit different.
There’s a line that says: “When I was just a kid, they said, ‘Kid, don’t you cry.’”
And I felt that.
Because I’ve spent most of my life being told that same thing—maybe not in those exact words, but in the way people reacted when I showed emotion. When I felt deeply. When I wasn’t able to keep it light.
For a long time, my emotions were loud. Heavy. Unfiltered.
They’d come in like waves and crash hard, and I didn’t know how to stop them.
I didn’t know how to hold them—only how to survive them.
And it cost me a lot.
But here’s the thing: I never learned how to fake it.
I just learned how to refine it.
Over time, I stopped letting my emotions control me—and started learning how to meet them with clarity.
I didn’t shut them out. I invited them in.
I’ve learned how to sit with grief instead of run from it. To listen to what it’s trying to teach me. To let it move through me without wrecking the whole foundation.
I’ve been doing the work. Quietly. Relentlessly.
Not just to get better—but to understand myself.
To weather the storm without becoming it.
Because that’s what these challenges do.
They shape us. Sharpen us.
They teach us how to stay soft in the places that matter,
and strong where we need to be.
They teach us how to keep going—not just when it’s easy, but when it’s brutally hard.
And somehow, in the middle of all of that…
I’m still driving.
Still navigating the mess.
Still dodging the fallen branches.
Still choosing to wake up when it would be easier to shut down.
That’s not failure. That’s not weakness. That’s not too much.
That’s what it means to be alive.
I’m not who I was when the storm started. I’m certain of that.
But maybe this isn’t the storm breaking me.
Maybe it’s the one that’s building me into someone I’ve never been allowed to become—until now.
And maybe… it’s how I know I’m not lost.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
Related Reading
If this piece resonated with you, you might also find these worth exploring:
- Versions of Me: Who I Was Is Who Saves Me Now
- Built in the Fire: Held by the Ashes
- The Water We Swim In: What Misalignment Really Means
Disclosure:
The content contained herein reflects the personal views and opinions of the author and is provided for general informational and educational purposes only. This publication is not intended to constitute, and should not be construed as: investment advice, financial planning advice, tax advice, legal advice, or a recommendation to buy, sell, or hold any security or to adopt any investment strategy. This content is not individualized to any reader’s circumstances. Nothing contained herein creates an advisory relationship, and the author is not acting in any fiduciary or advisory capacity through this publication. Nothing herein is an offer to provide advisory services or a solicitation to become a client. The views expressed are solely those of the author and do not represent the views of any current or former employer, affiliate, or associated entity.