They say we only live once, but the truth is, we die many times before our final breath. Not all deaths are physical. Some are quiet, invisible wounds that no one else sees. We die in the moments when our hearts shatter, when dreams slip through our fingers, when the weight of life becomes too much to carry. We die every time we give up on something we once fought for, every time we silence our own voice, every time we let go of a part of ourselves just to survive.

I think about all the versions of me that no longer exist. The one who loved fearlessly, the one who believed in forever, the one who saw the world with unshaken wonder. Some of them faded with time, others were torn away by betrayal, heartbreak, and exhaustion. And yet, here I am, carrying the weight of all my past selves, walking forward with the pieces that remain.

It’s strange how life works. We mourn the people we’ve lost, but we rarely grieve the versions of ourselves that died along the way. Maybe because no one really talks about it. No one warns you that growing up means burying parts of yourself over and over again. No one tells you that sometimes, the biggest loss you’ll face isn’t someone else walking away, it’s you, slowly disappearing from your own reflection.

But if death is inevitable, so is rebirth. And yet, I wonder, how many times can I rise before I no longer recognize the person standing back up? How many deaths can a heart endure before it finally stops wanting to beat?

I don’t know the answer. But if I must die a thousand deaths in this lifetime, then let me at least make each one mean something. Let me grieve what I’ve lost, but not forget what I’ve learned. Let me walk away from my past selves, but never lose sight of who I was meant to become.

And if one day, I reach a point where there’s nothing left of me. No more fire, no more fight, then let my last death be the quietest one of all. One where I finally let go, not because I gave up, but because I gave everything I had.

Love,

Ana 💋