“Still Waiting to Exhale”

My entire life, I’ve been running. And waiting—aching—to exhale.
A real exhale. A deep one. The kind that rattles your bones on the way out.
But I haven’t earned that breath yet.
I’ve been sprinting from pain, ducking from hurt feelings, sidestepping my past, dodging religion, ignoring the naysayers, and ghosting anyone who secretly hoped I’d fall flat on my face.

Any flicker of vulnerability? I’m gone.
Two feet on the brake and the gas—because I don’t know how to stop but I sure as hell don’t know how to stay, either.
Always on edge. Ready to bolt.
I’ve made an art out of escape.

Because to fully exhale?
To let go of the tension coiled up in my spine, the ache in my chest, the scream sitting in the back of my throat?
That would mean I’m safe.
That I could finally stop bracing for impact, finally gather the scattered pieces of me, finally feel without flinching.

But here’s the kicker:
I don’t even know what I’d do with that kind of peace.
What happens when the war ends and you’re the only soldier left, standing in silence, still clutching your weapon like the enemy's just around the corner?
I’ve been running so long I’ve started to believe the chase is home.
Still waiting for a place to collapse that doesn’t collapse around me.

I've been running all my life.
And maybe I don't know how to breathe without the burn anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if I even want to stop.
If I’ve romanticized the run, made it holy, like motion itself is proof I’m still alive.
Like stillness means surrender.
Like peace is a scam people sell you once they’ve gutted you enough to make you docile.
I’ve seen what they call peace—
A tidy little life built on swallowing your voice, biting your tongue, folding yourself into something small and polite and palatable.
No, thank you.

I’ve outrun a lot—
My childhood.
The god they swore would love me but only if I hated myself enough first.
The tight-lipped family dinners where no one ever said what they meant but everyone bled beneath the table.
I’ve left churches with my fists clenched and my jaw locked.
Walked out of rooms where I knew I’d never be enough, never be understood, never be safe.
And still—
Still I’m looking over my shoulder like the past might grab me by the throat and remind me who I used to be.

People talk about healing like it’s a sunrise.
Gentle. Predictable. Beautiful.
But mine feels more like an earthquake I keep surviving.
One minute I’m fine, the next I’m rubble.

And I don’t know what I’d do with a soft landing.
I don’t know how to be held without flinching.
Don’t know how to be loved without calculating the risk.
Don’t know how to sit in a room where no one’s waiting to tear me apart and believe it’s real.

Every time I think I’ve found rest, I hold my breath—
just in case.
Because safety has always been a mirage I sprint toward and watch dissolve every damn time I get close.
Because I’ve been the one burned and I’ve been the one with the match.
Because trust is a language I never fully learned.

So yeah, I’ve been running.
Running with blistered feet and a heart that limps, but still somehow beats.
And if I ever do find a place to exhale, I don’t know if I’ll cry or collapse or scream or just stand there in disbelief.
But I’ll know it’s real if my shoulders drop and I don’t feel like prey anymore.
If I can finally unclench my fists.
If I don’t need an escape route.
If I forget, even for a moment, what it feels like to be hunted by my own past.

And maybe—just maybe—that breath will come.
Not because I stopped running,
but because I finally realized I’m no longer being chased.