There are seasons in life when you suddenly find yourself slipping away from everyone. Not out of spite, not because you stopped caring, but simply because you don’t know what’s happening inside you anymore.
You wake up one day, and the world feels dimmer. The things that used to make you smile now barely register. You open your phone, stare at the messages waiting for you, and instead of feeling warmth, you feel a quiet dread. It’s like your mind has barricaded itself, telling you, “Not today. I can’t handle this today.”
So you disappear.
You stop replying, stop showing up, stop sharing pieces of your day. You become a ghost to the people who once held you close. And it’s not because they did something wrong—it’s because your insides are unraveling, and you have no words for it.
It’s a strange kind of grief, being sad without knowing why. You try to trace it—was it something someone said? Is it burnout? Is it loneliness? Or is it just your mind and body waving a white flag after holding on too tightly for too long?
But there’s no clear culprit. Only an unplaceable heaviness that makes reaching out to people feels impossible. Conversations start to seem like chores. Even a simple “how are you?” feels like an exam you didn’t study for.
You think: “I should reply. I should update them. I should show I care.”
And then you think: “But I don’t even understand myself right now. How can I let someone in?”
Part of why you vanish is because you don’t want to drag anyone down with you. You know how energy transfers—if you’re gloomy, they might start to worry, might feel obligated to lift you up. And that feels unfair.
So, you tell yourself: “Let me figure this out first. Let me patch myself up. I’ll come back when I’m okay.”
Because you do want to come back. You want to be the friend who laughs loudly again, who sends memes at 2 a.m., who listens with her whole heart. But right now, that person is missing.
And yet, some people will still take it personally.
They’ll say: “You could’ve at least told me.”
Or worse, “So, all this time, I didn’t matter enough for you to reach out?”
They’ll count your silence as a betrayal. They’ll make sumbat—remind you of all the times they were there, subtly guilt-tripping you for not giving them a heads-up.
What they don’t see is that sometimes there is no warning. Sometimes, you’re hit by a fog so dense that you lose sight of even yourself. You weren’t intentionally ignoring them; you were simply trying to survive.
If you’re someone who disappears when everything falls apart, I want you to know it’s okay. You’re not a bad friend. You’re not selfish. You’re just human.
It takes immense courage to admit you’re not okay—and sometimes that admission only happens in silence.
If you’re someone on the other end—if your friend has pulled away—try not to take it as rejection. Try to understand that their silence is not a measure of your worth but of their struggle.
Sometimes, the best love you can give is patience.
No pressure. No guilt. Just space held gently open for when they find their way back.
To the version of me who ghosted everyone because she didn’t have the strength to say, “I’m not okay right now.”—I forgive you.
I hope one day you’ll remember that disappearing wasn’t weakness. It was survival. And that the people who truly matter will still be there when you’re ready to return.
Until then, keep breathing. Keep trying.
Healing doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes, it looks like hiding in your room, not replying to anyone, and trusting that those who love you will understand.
And someday, when the weight lifts, you’ll come back.
And it will be enough.