This morning, I woke up thinking about rest and how badly I needed it after the night before. Sleep had been broken and restless, and my body ached from the emotional weight it carried yesterday. I barely made it through the day, running on fumes and emotions I couldn’t name.

Today began with coffee. It’s usually my comfort, my ritual. But yesterday, one gulp hit different. I felt like I was choking. Not just on coffee, but on everything I didn’t say, everything I held in. There was a huge bubble of pressure in my chest—at the time, I didn’t have the words, but I know now: those were tears trying to escape.

The logic in me today asks, Why did I panic? Why didn’t I just run to the kitchen and spit it out? Why did I freeze in that moment, trying to figure out how to swallow it, how to make it pass, how to make it okay?

I think it’s because I do that in life, too.

When things hurt, when grief presses hard, when fear or sorrow or confusion rise in my throat—I try to swallow it. I try to manage it. I don’t run. I don’t let it spill out. I try to carry it. But just like that gulp of coffee, some things aren’t meant to be swallowed. Some things need to be spit out, screamed out, cried out.

Today is staff appreciation day at work. We’re having a Kentucky Derby–themed celebration, with contests for best dressed and best hat. The kind of day that’s supposed to be lighthearted and fun. And the painful irony? I was the one who suggested the theme.

But, I just don’t have it in me. I couldn’t pull myself together enough to find a hat or a dress. The energy it takes to pretend I’m okay—just to put on something cheerful when I feel anything but—was too much.

Some people will laugh and celebrate today, and I’ll smile with them, but inside I’ll be checking my phone.

Because today also marks two weeks that he’s been in the hospital.

Two weeks of uncertainty. Two weeks of hearing his voice through a phone that never sounds warm anymore. Two weeks of listening for even a sliver of hope in his words—and still not finding it. His voice is flat, distant, hollow. When I tell him I love him, he hesitates before saying it back. That hesitation—those few seconds—it guts me every time.

I expect a call today. From a social worker. From someone who might tell me what’s next. But what if there is no next? What if nothing changes?

There are days I can fake it better than others. Today isn’t one of them.

So I go back to that moment with the coffee. That tight pressure in my chest. That moment of panic. That impulse to swallow instead of spit it out.

Maybe what I’m learning is this: just because I can swallow my pain, doesn’t mean I should.

Maybe today, I don’t wear a hat. Maybe I wear the truth instead.