The Part of Me That Wanted to Die Was Fighting to Live

Photo by Krystian Tambur on Unsplash

There’s an Arabic saying I can’t stop thinking about:

"If you want to die, throw yourself into the sea—and you’ll find yourself fighting to survive. You don’t actually want to die; you want to kill something inside you."

That hit like a punch to the ribs.

Because I’ve been there. Many times.
In that numb, heavy place where part of me quietly wished it would all just stop.
Not because I really want to die, but because continuing feels like dragging my body through emotional concrete.

And still, at the very same time, I felt the another part of me hanging on with white knuckles.
Remembering people I love.
Grasping at some flicker of a dream I haven’t fully buried.
Longing, deeply, just to feel okay for five minutes straight.

How do those two things coexist?
How do you ache for rest and fight for life in the same breath?

That quote gives it to you straight:
You don’t want to die.
You want to kill the pain.
The shame.
The unbearable voice that loops in your head whispering that you’re too much, or not enough, or somehow both.

And here’s the hard part:
Those voices?
They’re not monsters.
They’re security systems.
They were built for you, by you, back when you had no better options.

I’ve lived inside that system.
Overwhelmed by family needs.
Paying bills alone.
Holding space for therapy clients while the chaos in my own home simmers.
Community fires flaring out of nowhere, damaging trust, hurting kids, fraying nerves.
Trying to shield my family while feeling like I’m standing in the middle of a war zone with no armor.

And underneath all that?
A quiet, constant ache: I’m in this alone.
Support—emotional, practical, financial—rarely shows up when I fall.
People expect me to be the strong one.
The helper.
The capable one who never drops the ball.

But I do drop it.
And when I do, no one’s there to catch me.

Somewhere along the way, a belief settled in like mold:
I’m a loser.

Not loud, not dramatic. Just quietly corrosive.
A belief born from being unsupported (even now, every time I read or think this line I tear up).
“If no one’s helping me, maybe I don’t deserve help.”

So I compensated.
I over-functioned.
I became the fixer, the pleaser, the emotional workhorse.
And in doing so, I disappeared from my own life.

That’s the part of me that wanted to die.
Not because I wanted to stop living, but because I couldn’t keep carrying the weight of being everyone’s everything.

And that same part?
It didn’t want death.
It wanted relief.
It wanted to be seen, helped, held for once without having to earn it.

Healing didn’t come from silencing that voice.
It came from listening.
Slowing down enough to realize:
That voice has been screaming for years, in the only language it knows.

Self-doubt.
Overthinking.
Burnout.
Shutdown.

What I used to call “self-sabotage” was actually a warning light.
My nervous system’s version of “check engine.”
And the problem wasn’t that I was broken.
The problem was that I was still running the same old emotional software I built as a kid.

It all made sense in context.

Every behavior was trying to meet a need:

Safety.
Belonging.
Reassurance.
Worth.

When I began meeting those needs in better ways—through relating to my feelings and naming them and getting to know them with curiosity, by building a solid emotional relationship with the little boy still in me, through boundaries, with support, or actual rest—the behaviors stopped having to work overtime.

Not because I crushed them.
But because they were no longer needed.
They could retire.

That’s the real work.
Not scrubbing yourself clean of every messy part.
But honoring the role they played, you no longer serve me but you did, and finally saying, you can rest now.

Because healing isn’t a war against yourself.
It’s a truce.
A turning toward.
A new agreement: I won’t abandon myself to be loved.

You don’t have to kill yourself to heal yourself.
You don’t have to earn your worth by breaking your back.
You just have to stay in the room with yourself long enough to hear what hurts, and respond with something better than silence.

It’s not fast.
It’s not always graceful.
But it is possible.

And if you’ve been carrying too much for too long, if you’ve been strong for everyone but yourself, if you’re tired of being tired, know this:

You’re not broken.
You’re just worn out from doing it alone.

Say “me too” in the comments if this hits home. Or share your story.
And if you just need someone to hear you, my inbox is open.

You don’t have to disappear to be seen.