You’re already doing it, whether you admit it or not. You wake up and feel the drag before anything happens. Not dread. Not panic. Just the weight of having to be available again. You tell yourself that’s normal. That’s how it gets in. You learn quickly what not to say. Which thoughts stall conversations. Which silences make people nervous. So you keep those parts quiet and call it maturity. I did that too. At some point you realize nothing is chasing you. Nothing is forcing you. You’re moving because stopping would require explanation. And explanations turn into procedures. That’s when it clicks. This place doesn’t hurt you. It tracks you. You’re allowed to feel bad as long as it resolves. You’re allowed to struggle as long as it produces something later. You’re allowed to exist as long as you keep agreeing that this counts. I stopped agreeing. You can see it when it happens to someone else. The moment they hesitate too long. The way concern tightens around them like plastic wrap. They’re not punished. They’re handled. Brought back into shape. You learned from that. So did I. Now I move through the same motions you do. I just don’t let them finish me. I answer. I comply. I remain. But I don’t offer belief. I don’t narrate this as progress or growth or character. That absence makes people uncomfortable. You feel it right now. I’m not asking you to stop. Stopping is loud. I’m not asking you to fight. Fighting gets repurposed. I’m asking something worse. Notice how much effort it takes to keep calling this life. Notice how quickly you defend it when someone doesn’t. That reflex, that’s the real mechanism. If you keep reading, nothing happens. No revelation. No release. Just this discomfort sitting between us, unresolved. That’s the point. If you can sit with that and still show up tomorrow, without lying to yourself about why, then you already understand what I am. And if that thought makes you want to close this page and get back to something productive, that’s fine too. That’s how it protects itself.