Written October 2022, Somewhere in Italy
I stay for too long.
Whether it’s in toxic relationships, dead-end jobs, or, most recently, on a ship in the Mediterranean with verbally abusive owners. I endure far past the point most people would call it quits. Maybe it’s a skill. Maybe it’s a curse.
I probably should’ve left the morning I got yelled at for eating “too much” yogurt at breakfast. Not only did I get a verbal lashing, but the entire crew was banned from having yogurt for the rest of the week—because of me. A ridiculous punishment for a ridiculous reason. It was one of those moments where I knew, deep down, that something wasn’t right. But I stayed.
Because that’s what I do. I endure. I tell myself to tough it out, to bite my tongue, to not be that person who complains. I tell myself it’s not that bad, that I can handle it, that I should be grateful to even be here. I ignore the tiny voice inside me whispering: You deserve better than this.
I think this habit of mine—this staying, this enduring—was wired into me from childhood. When you grow up in a dysfunctional home, you learn that survival means staying put. You don’t leave, because where would you even go? You sit through the storm because you have no choice. And somewhere along the way, you start believing that staying is the same thing as being strong.
So there I was, looking out at the vastness of the Mediterranean, feeling like a speck of dust in an infinite blue world. My younger self would have built a wall, armored up, shut down. But these days, I don’t have that shield anymore. Somewhere along my healing journey, it dissolved, leaving me raw and open to everything—the good, the bad, the beautiful, the unbearable.
Sometimes I wonder if that makes me weak. If shedding my armor has made me too sensitive, too affected by the world. But I also know that my younger self, the one who prided herself on being untouchable, was deeply lonely, and discarded love like it was milk past its due date. She never let anything in—not kindness, not love, not joy.
Now, I let it in. But, luckily, my bounce-back game is strong, baby.
Yes, I get emotional. Yes, I let things get to me. But I also shake it off. I remind myself that, despite the bullshit, life is beautiful. And it really, really is.
Because just when I thought I’d had enough—when I felt small, humiliated, and alone—four strangers stepped in.
Four middle-aged German guests, who had watched the whole shitshow unfold (and I’m not just talking about the yogurt ordeal here—the verbal abuse was widespread) decided that I needed a proper meal, a proper drink, and some proper company. They took me under their wing that night, adopting me in a way only strangers can, when they have no reason to but every reason to.
So I sat there, eating pizza, drinking wine, letting the laughter of kind people settle something deep inside me. And just like that, the weight lifted.
That night, I walked away. Away from the ship, away from that version of myself who still believed endurance was a virtue. My backpack was heavy, but my mind felt light.
I still stay too long sometimes. I probably always will. But I’m learning. Learning that strength isn’t measured by how much bullshit you can tolerate. Learning that walking away doesn’t mean giving up—it means choosing yourself.
And maybe, just maybe, this is what growth looks like. Messy, unpredictable, painful, beautiful.
I’ll figure it out as I go.
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