By Kimy, SYI Workforce Intern
I imagine my emotions as a vast landscape caught in a violent storm.
The storm represents overload not just pain, but accumulated pressure: unmet expectations, survival instincts, unresolved memories, fear of failure, and the constant need to stay strong even when I’m exhausted from being strong.
This storm is loud because I have been quiet for too long.
The dark clouds are my thoughts when they begin to spiral. What if I don’t make it? What if all this effort leads nowhere? Why do I always have to be the resilient one? They block clarity and make everything feel heavier than it truly is.
The thunder is inner conflict the collision between who I am now and who I am trying to become. One part of me wants rest and safety. Another part refuses to stop moving forward. They clash violently, echoing through the sky.
The rain is emotional release. It is sadness, frustration, disappointment, and grief falling all at once. It floods the surface because I don’t always allow myself to feel slowly. When I finally let myself feel, it comes intensely.
The areas most affected are the open plains my motivation, my energy, my confidence. These are the places exposed to everything. During the storm, they become unstable. I doubt myself. I lose direction. I shrink.
But not everything breaks.
Beneath the surface, there are deep-rooted values formed in silence, strength built through necessity, a quiet belief that my life holds meaning beyond this moment. These roots were shaped by earlier storms. They do not panic. They hold.
There are also mountains my boundaries, my self-awareness, my refusal to abandon myself. The storm strikes them directly, yet they remain unmoved. They remind me that survival is not new to me.
I no longer try to control the storm. I have learned that clarity does not come from force, but from grounding. When everything shakes, I slow down. I stop demanding answers from a mind that is overwhelmed.
Instead, I ask gentler questions.
What is actually happening right now?
What am I feeling, and what am I fearing?
Which parts of me feel exposed and which parts remain steady?
When visibility is low, I walk by memory instead of sight. I remember who I have been in moments of collapse and who I chose to become afterward. I remind myself that storms move through landscapes; they do not define them.
And if you are reading this and feeling unsettled, perhaps it is because a storm is moving through you too.
What does your storm look like?
Which thoughts become loud when everything feels unstable?
Are you trying to fight the storm, or are you learning to stand within it?
What truth could you hold onto when everything else feels uncertain?
Storms reshape landscapes. They wash away what was never rooted deeply enough. They test what claims to be strong.
When this storm passes, I will not rush to rebuild what existed before. I will look carefully at what remains and choose consciously what deserves to stay.
I am not untouched.
I am not unscarred.
But I am aware, grounded, and still myself.