I Hate This Stage (But I Know Better Than That)

 “I Hate This Stage (But I Know Better Than That)”

by Caiden Garner

I don’t hate this stage of life.
But I can’t say I love it, either.
If I’m being honest, I think I’m just trying to survive it.

I’ve mastered the art of looking okay.
I know how to say “I’m fine” with a steady voice and tired eyes.
I know how to search for silver linings, even when the sky above me feels dull and gray.
But lately, pretending feels more like hiding.

There’s this weight in my chest I can’t name—
like I’m carrying something invisible and heavy,
and no one else can see it.

Some days feel blurry, like I’m watching my own life from a few steps outside of it.
I move through the motions, say all the right things, smile at all the right times.
But none of it feels real.
None of it feels like mine.

I don’t think I’m sad.
But I’m not happy either.
I exist somewhere in between—
in that strange, quiet middle ground where things don’t hurt, but they don’t feel good either.

And that’s a hard place to stay.

Lately, I’ve been retreating.
Not because I’ve stopped caring—but because caring feels loud.
And lately, I crave silence.
I used to be everywhere, all at once.
I poured myself into people, showed up for everyone, gave more than I had.
But I rarely made room for myself.
And that kind of emptiness catches up with you.

I think I’m slowly learning what it means to choose solitude—
not out of sadness, but for survival.

I dream of starting over.
A city I don’t know yet, a version of myself I haven’t met.
Far enough from what I’ve outgrown, close enough to who I want to be.
I imagine doing it alone, and strangely, that doesn’t scare me.
Maybe because the thought of depending on someone else feels heavier than just depending on myself.

Romance doesn’t make me nervous.
It makes me nauseous—like I’ve stepped into a scene I don’t know how to play.
I don’t know how to be soft in front of someone else.
I don’t know what to do with tenderness when it’s handed to me.
I shrink from it.
I question it.
And maybe I’ve convinced myself I’m not built for that kind of vulnerability.

But I still crave it. Quietly.

So I write.

I read.
Not for the aesthetic, but because those are the only places where my brain slows down.
Reading lets me escape the noise.
Writing helps me sift through the mess.
Both remind me that I’m still here—that I still feel, even if I can’t always explain it.

I’m not proud of the way I talk to myself.
I post something that felt right in the moment, only to delete it hours later because it suddenly feels too loud.
Too exposed. Too much.
I second-guess everything.
I treat my own emotions like strangers at the door: unsure if they’re safe, unsure if I should let them in.

And I know that needs to change.
I know I need to be softer with myself.

But I don’t always know how.

Still… I’m trying.

Trying to give myself room to feel without shame.
Trying to speak gently in a mind that’s learned to yell.

Trying to trust that this version of me, the one caught in between who I was and who I want to be, is still worthy.

I won’t tie this up with a neat little bow.
There’s no polished ending to offer you—just this moment.
Just me. Still writing. Still searching. Still showing up.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.