EDITOR’S NOTE: Permission to be Powerful is growing fast. In that spirit, a bunch of writers came together to show their support. I’m immensely grateful. I’ll be sharing a new piece every day for the next 10 days.
Now, let’s get into it…
Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,
His son called - my brother.
He invited them to visit.
Dad nodded when Mom told him,
like it made sense.
Like he remembered.
But a few minutes later,
he asked again.
“We can’t,” she said,
tired and firm.
No softness in her voice.
Not that day.
He didn’t argue.
He never does.
Just wandered to the table
and picked up his calendar.
It’s always close by.
He marks each day with a highlighter.
a green streak of fluorescent proof
that he’s still part of the world.
Some days, he notices
he’s missed one or two.
He frowns, confused -
like he’s failed at being present.
Like time betrayed him.
Still, he flips through the months,
as if one of them
might bring him back.
She doesn’t look up.
Keeps herself busy with small tasks,
always busy.
She refuses help.
Gets sharp if anything’s questioned.
Fiercely holds the role no one asked her to carry.
And I see it -
the wear in her bones
and the edge in her voice.
She doesn’t see what I see.
Or maybe she does,
and it terrifies her.
And me?
I stand in the quiet between them,
watching a moment
neither of them will remember -
but I will never forget.
Unspoken Cost
There’s a weight that comes with watching.
Not just watching someone disappear - but watching both of them
while staying silent
because speaking means conflict.
I see him fading.
I see her hardening.
I try to help,
but help isn’t welcome here.
And if I push,
I pay.
There is no right thing.
Just trade-offs.
Just quiet choices,
and grief that doesn’t show up in language.
Sometimes I want to scream.
Sometimes I want to disappear, too.
But I don’t.
Because I’m still here,
holding the line between memory and survival.
And Now, Me
I can’t breathe.
This ache is so old,
it has roots in my spine.
It lives in the marrow of my days.
I am watching them both slip -
one into forgetting,
the other into control,
and I am stuck in the middle,
drowning in silence.
Everything I do comes at a cost.
If I speak, I’m the problem.
If I stay quiet, I vanish.
I am so fucking tired
of trading pieces of myself
just to keep the peace.
There are moments when I want to leave -
not because I don’t love them,
but because it’s killing me to stay.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because part of me still believes
someone needs to witness this,
to remember the things they can’t.
So I write.
So I breathe - barely.
So I stay - for now.
But I am not okay.
And that is the truest thing I can say today.
If you’re still reading - thank you.
This isn’t just a story.
It’s my life, right now.
Some days I’m strong.
Some days I write to keep from falling apart.
Today was the latter.
If this piece moved you, or made you feel seen,
you can buy me a coffee - literally.
Because sometimes what gets us through
is a little caffeine and a lot of kindness.
And if you’re living in the in-between,
watching someone disappear,
or trying to hold everything together for everyone else,
I see you.
You’re not alone.
Love
Michele Chapman
 | A guest post by
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Thank you for seeing me ❤️
I love this image :-)