“I wish you would open up, Krystina.”

I hear it a lot.
From family. From friends. From strangers who follow my story online.
But what they don’t understand is…
this guard I carry wasn’t built…it grew.

It grew from everything I’ve survived.
It’s not a wall I consciously put up.
It’s muscle memory.
It’s my default setting.
It’s the way I learned to breathe without drowning.

How do you open up…
When every conversation risks becoming a trigger?
When one wrong word could unlock a floodgate you’ve been patching together with duct tape for years?

How do you “talk about it” when the emotions you’ve buried could consume you…
When you know too well what it’s like to get too close to the edge?

The truth is…
Some of us don’t speak because we’re scared of what might come pouring out.

I grieve every single day.
Not always with tears…sometimes with silence.
With a deep ache in my chest that never really goes away.
My entire life was taken from me in one moment.
And sure, I’ve rebuilt parts of it.
But let’s not pretend that rebuilding is the same as getting it back.

The things I once loved…gone.
Or, if I can still do them, they now require planning, help, and Herculean effort.
Even joy is exhausting.

And I’m still not comfortable in my own body.
It’s like living in a house that was once yours but has now been gutted and rearranged by someone else.

So how do I open up?
How do I talk about pain, when feeling it fully might destroy me?

That’s what people don’t get.
They think vulnerability is bravery.
And sometimes, it is.
But other times, vulnerability is a luxury people like me can’t afford.

Because if I break down, I’m not sure I’ll be able to put myself back together again.

I’ve mastered the poker face…on and off the table.
I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve.
Now, it’s buried deep in a pocket where no one can reach it.
Not even me.

When my body went numb…
my mind learned to follow.

If you ask my mother, she’ll tell you I’ve always been emotionless.
But that’s not the truth.
If anyone ever really read my childhood poems and journals, they’d know…
I was a child overflowing with emotion.
Anger. Sadness. Depression. Loneliness.
A little girl who felt everything too deeply…
until she was taught not to feel anything at all.

Because in my house, emotions made you weak.
Being vulnerable made you easy to break.
And I? I wanted to survive.

So I learned to watch.
To read the room.
To act accordingly.

To morph.
To shrink.
To shut down.

I don’t write this for pity.
I write it because somewhere, someone else is walking around with a poker face and a heart full of unshed tears.
And they need to know they’re not alone.

You’re not “too cold.”
You’re not “too guarded.”
You’re surviving.
And that, in itself, is a kind of bravery the world rarely celebrates.

By: Krystina | # WheelStrong

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Or just sit with it in silence.
That’s enough.