June 11
Under the cudgel blows of chance / I have lowered my head, but never bowed it. / I am the master of my fate, / the helmsman of my soul.
Invictus (freely rendered)
Listening mode
Under the cudgel blows of chance / I have lowered my head, but never bowed it. / I am the master of my fate, / the helmsman of my soul.
When something hard happens to you, other people often want to know how you're coping. The honest answer is usually messier than the question suggests. One day you stay composed; the next, a broken coffee machine makes you cry.
You have no say over what happens to you. Over what you feel about it, surprisingly little. That leaves the question of what you allow the event to do: whether it gets to decide whom you still trust, what you think yourself capable of, how you speak about yourself. That is where a narrow margin lies, and it isn't equally wide every day.
It gets tricky when not giving in becomes a duty. Whoever sets out to seem unbroken tends to hide the cracks even from those who could help. From the outside, the strength then looks just as it did before. Only no one gets close enough anymore to notice how much it costs.
Sometimes it is precisely a concession that gives you back some of that margin. You tell someone you're not doing well, and as you say it you hear your own voice. It sounds steadier than you expected.
