The Silence Between Two Worlds

There are moments in life when everything remains seemingly the same—the place you live, the work you do, the roles you occupy, the people around you—but, inside, something falls apart in silence. And that "something" is precisely what sustained everything: meaning.

In the last few months, I've been in this strange place. A place where routine happens, but the soul is silent. Where the body fulfills commitments, but the heart watches life as if from the outside. A place where you ask yourself, with pain, but also with lucidity: "How did I get here?"

The answer is complex—and perhaps it is for many people. I worked my entire life, I was everything expected of me. I was strong, I was strategic, I was tireless. I conquered spaces, respected deadlines, paid bills, helped my children, supported my family. I created solutions, made connections, kept promises. And, in the midst of it all... I lost myself.

It wasn't all at once. It was gradual. A desire to stay still. Then, to stay still. Then, to stay still. A tiredness that wouldn't go away with sleep. A silence that wasn't peace, but absence. A look in the mirror that no longer recognized itself.

I felt my heart beating, but I couldn't feel life. It was as if I were a shadow of myself, doing what was necessary, but without emotion, without enthusiasm, without desire.

And the hardest part? People kept admiring me. They kept saying, "You're incredible, strong, brilliant," while all I felt was, "I'm falling apart inside." The pain of internal disconnection is invisible—and therefore so lonely.

Even so, I kept going. Because I couldn't stop. Because I'm a mother. Because I'm the pillar of the house. Because I have bills, I have a child, I have a sick mother. Because stopping meant crumbling a structure that other people need to stay afloat.

But there came a time when I needed to look within. Not out of selfishness, but out of necessity. Because the soul also sickens silently—and when we don't take care of it, it abandons us.

And that's when I decided to start—or perhaps, start over.

Not with grand plans or magical promises. But with a single choice: to be honest with myself.

To admit that I'm tired. That I feel lost. That I no longer believe in many things. That I feel empty. That I've lost my faith—and that, even so, I still long to find it again.

I decided to write this text because I know many people experience this pain. An unspoken mourning of themselves. A sadness that doesn't turn into tears because it needs to keep "functioning." A disconnection that masks itself as productivity. A depression that disguises itself as strength.

Today, I give myself permission to say: I'm not okay. But I want to be okay again.

I want to reinvent myself, rediscover myself, allow myself to truly be. I want to find spaces where I fit in without having to force myself. I want to build a life that doesn't need to be sustained by obligation, but by presence, purpose, and peace.

I don't have all the answers. But I'm asking courageously.

And that's a start.

I'm rebuilding my faith—one prayer at a time. I'm reclaiming my body—one bath at a time. I'm caring for my mind—one sincere conversation at a time. I'm dreaming of new paths—one real plan at a time. Maybe you're in that place too. And if you are, I embrace you from here. Not with pity. But with understanding. You're not lazy, weak, or ungrateful. You're tired of carrying the world. And the good news is: you can let go for a bit.

Breathe. And choose, again.

If you've made it this far, thank you for reading. Thank you for witnessing my attempt to start over. Because yes, I'm tired. But I'm still here. And that's already a miracle happening silently.

With love,

Sheila Costa