Remain

I’m sitting here listening to the rain patter against the patio, the cold morning breeze brushing against my face. The sound is steady, almost hypnotic. I scroll through old playlists, surrounded by ghosts of who I once was. Each song feels like a timestamp, a snapshot of a different peak or valley, a different version of me trying to survive something. Then “Remain” begins to play.

The opening notes hit like memory. “I’ve been breaking, trying to repair everything I make.” Those words echo through me because they are me. Every effort, every rebuild, every time I’ve tried to fix something that was already cracked before I ever touched it. I’ve spent years living in cycles of construction and collapse, building a life, holding it together with sheer will, and starting over again when it falls apart.

“I’m dying just to keep my place.” That line feels like the truth of this morning. I am so tired. Exhausted in a way that sits deeper than sleep can reach. My body feels heavy, my spirit frayed. I’m tired of being the one who carries the weight, tired of being the strong one when I don’t want to be, tired of fighting to stay upright when everything inside me just wants to rest. Even in love, even in leadership, I’ve had to be my own anchor, the one who steadies the ship when no one else will.

Then the chorus rises, that fragile plea that somehow sounds like survival. “Just keep trying, just keep fighting, just keep surviving, just keep breathing, just keep believing.” And in that repetition, something softens. The tears I’ve held back for weeks finally break free, unstoppable. And for once, I don’t resist. It’s not about endurance anymore. It’s about release. The exhaustion is real, but so is the transformation buried inside it. Maybe this breaking isn’t the end — maybe it’s the fire that clears the way for something new.

The rain outside keeps falling, steady and sure, as the final words fade. “I will remain.” They land quietly, not as a command but as a truth. Remaining isn’t strength or duty; it’s surrender. It’s breathing through the ache. It’s sitting here, soaked in the sound of rain, stripped of pretense, and still choosing to exist.

And maybe that’s what this morning really is — the quiet death before the rebirth. The moment where everything heavy begins to loosen its grip. The Phoenix doesn’t rise in glory; it first burns in silence. This morning feels like that burning, painful, necessary, transformative. I don’t know what comes next, but I know this: I have remained through every storm before, and somehow, I will again.