There’s a kind of social psychosis
they don’t teach you how to name,
especially if you’re a woman
trained to survive quietly.
You start craving connection
like oxygen,
so you substitute.
You blur the lines.
Work becomes community.
Shared deadlines pretend to be shared lives.
You call proximity belonging
because you need something to hold.
And for a moment,
you almost believe it.
But the void doesn’t close.
It hums.
Low frequency.
Constant.
After the pandemic,
they said we were “back to normal,”
like normal didn’t leave bodies behind.
Like we didn’t lose people
and never get a ceremony
big enough to carry it.
Some of my dead
live in that timeline.
And when I look back,
I don’t just see COVID.
I see childhood.
September eleventh.
Combat boots in foreign dust.
Different eras.
Same lesson.
Nothing is permanent.
Safety is rented.
Love is conditional on timing.
So my nervous system stays awake
even when the room is full.
I scan exits in conversations.
I count loyalty in breaths,
not promises.
And that’s when it hits you—
most people are walking through life
unaware.
Not stupid.
Not cruel.
Just untouched.
They don’t know what it’s like
to carry grief without an anniversary,
to flinch at sirens that aren’t for you,
to feel lonely
while surrounded by voices.
They don’t know how rare it is
to find someone who understands
without footnotes.
Without explanation.
Without asking you to soften the story
so they can stay comfortable.
That’s the real damage.
Not just the trauma—
but the lack of witnesses.
Because survival changes your definition
of togetherness.
You don’t want crowds.
You want recognition.
You don’t want attention.
You want attunement.
And when you don’t find it,
you wonder if you’re asking for too much.
You’re not.
You’ve just lived long enough
to know what connection actually costs.
And some of us
paid in advance.