is anyone else scared?

Is anyone else

scared?

Not just “I’m worried about a thing or two” scared—

I mean the kind of scared

that lives deep in your bones.

That shows up before you even open your eyes.

That follows you into rooms

you thought you were safe in.

That sits beside you

in the silence,

when everything else finally shuts up

and the noise inside you gets loud again.

I’m scared.

Of life.

Of time.

Of how fast it moves

and how little say I have in any of it.

I’m scared of waking up one day

and realizing I built a life out of dust—

out of things that didn’t matter

for people who never stayed.

I’m scared of love.

Not because I don’t want it—

but because I do.

So much.

Because what if I hand someone my whole heart

and they don’t know how to hold it?

What if they drop it?

What if they leave,

and take pieces of me

I can’t figure out how to grow back?

What if I give everything I have—

and it still isn’t enough?

Or worse—

what if I am?

Too much.

Too intense.

Too emotional.

Too loud.

Too me.

What if I take up space

in all the wrong ways?

What if I love wrong?

What if I stay longer than I should,

and all they remember

is how heavy I was to hold?

What if I fail?

Not just once—

but completely.

At being who I’m supposed to be.

At becoming someone worth missing.

Someone worth keeping.

What if I lose the person

I was meant to grow old with,

because I couldn’t stop second-guessing my own heart?

Because I was too scared to be seen,

or too scared to be loved,

or too scared to show the messy,

honest,

real version of me?

What if I have kids someday

and they look at me

and all they see

is what they never want to become?

What if I’m the reason

they learn how to hide?

What if I’m the silence

they carry into their own homes,

the ache they never find words for?

I am scared.

Of what comes next.

Of what doesn’t.

Of years I haven’t lived yet

already feeling heavy on my back.

I’m scared that time will move on

and I’ll still be standing in the same place—

just older.

Just quieter.

Just more used to the ache.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I’ve given so much of myself

to people who didn’t stay,

to things that didn’t last,

I don’t even know what parts are mine.

I feel hollow—

but somehow still

so heavy.

So I’ll ask again—

Is anyone else scared?

Not just a little.

Not just tonight.

I mean scared in a way that lingers.

Scared in a way that shapes your voice

and slows your steps.

Scared in a way

no one ever really sees

because you’ve learned how to wear it

like it belongs to you.

Because I’m tired.

Of carrying this quietly.

Of screaming into pillows

and showing up like I’m fine.

Of laughing in rooms

while drowning in the back of them.

So if you’re scared too—

I don’t need you to say it.

I just need you to feel this.

To know

that somewhere out there,

someone else is breaking

in the exact same way.

And maybe that doesn’t fix anything.

Maybe it doesn’t quiet the fear.

Or slow the thoughts.

Or fill the hollow.

But it means

I’m not the only one holding this weight.

Not the only one

wearing a smile like armor.

Not the only one

lying awake

with a heart full of questions

and no one to ask.

It means

somewhere—

in another body,

in another life,

someone else is scared too.

And maybe we’ll never meet.

Maybe we’ll never speak.

But in this moment,

we are standing in the same storm.

Bruised by the same wind.

Trying to stay standing

while everything inside us

is trying to collapse.

And maybe that’s not peace.

Maybe it’s not healing.

But it’s real.

And sometimes,

real is enough.

Because I’d rather be scared together

than silent alone.

And if you feel this too—

don’t turn away.

Don’t shrink.

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

You are just human

trying to hold your own heart

with shaking hands.

And that?

That is brave.