The Loud Inside Me 

I spent 23 miles beside Lake Michigan, and somehow the loudest thing out there was still inside me.

I am in it right now.

Not falling apart. Still functioning. Still working. Still drinking an irresponsible amount of coffee. Still making jokes that are, at minimum, mildly above average.

But struggling?

Yeah.

This weekend was a family wedding, the kind of weekend I genuinely look forward to for months. We only all get together once a year or so now, and as life spreads people across states, careers, marriages, kids, and responsibilities, those gatherings start feeling sacred.

My nephew got married, and I could not be prouder of him. He is an outstanding young man who found someone wonderful to spend his life with. Her family is warm, gracious, and exactly the sort of people you hope your family becomes connected to forever. It was the most beautiful wedding you could imagine! The whole thing should have felt like an oasis in what has been a bit of a desert season for me.

But, when it came time to contribute positively to everyone’s experience, let’s just say I was probably the worst part of several people’s weekend.

That is on me.

But it also reminded me of something I already know too well: I tend to carry things quietly until the weight starts leaking out sideways. I keep things to myself. Always have. It has been my coping mechanism for most of my life. Not necessarily the healthiest one, but functional enough. Functional enough to build a career, write poems, run ultramarathons, make people laugh, and occasionally convince the world, or at least social media, that I have things much more figured out than I actually do.

Years ago, I wrote a blog post called Shaking Alone: My Life with Tourette Syndrome. It surprised a lot of people. Even people close to me had no idea I had Tourette’s.

It makes sense that people would not know.  I have one of the mildest cases you will probably ever see. No loud vocal outbursts. No disruptions that stop life in its tracks. Mostly little things. I touch my ear. I look down. I shimmy my shoulders sometimes. Small tics that people who know me really well eventually notice. Once I mention it, suddenly they cannot unsee it.

“Oh.”

“Wait… you have always done that.”

Exactly.

But here is the thing people do not notice: when things get worse internally, I disappear a little. When the inside of my head starts feeling louder than the outside world, I retreat. I work. I keep to myself. I quietly ride it out. As a kid, people would tell me not to isolate so much, but isolation became survival. It became the way I learned to function.

I carry weight because I can. Pain, disappointment, sadness, and sometimes pieces of what the people around me are carrying too. I have always been able to shoulder more than most people realize and just keep moving. Keep producing. Keep joking. Keep showing up. I can carry more disappointment than most. More sadness. Sometimes even some of yours.

But lately?

It is getting heavy.

I was also diagnosed bipolar as a kid.

That diagnosis?

I genuinely do not know.

Maybe it fits. Maybe it does not. I read descriptions and parts feel familiar while other parts feel completely foreign. The lows, though? Those I understand.

The lows for me are not dramatic. They are quieter than that. An eight-hour workday suddenly takes twelve. Returning texts feels exhausting. Getting out to grab coffee somehow feels emotionally equivalent to climbing Everest, despite knowing rationally that it is, in fact, just coffee. You still go through the motions.

That is the strange part.

You smile. You joke. You show up.

You just do not quite feel it inside.

I did that 23-mile run around Lake Michigan recently because movement usually helps. Running has saved me more times than I can count. Usually, I love those long efforts, especially the absurd ones. There is something deeply human about willingly running yourself into discomfort and realizing your body and mind can survive more than you thought.

This run was different.

I smiled.

I appreciated the view.

I knew intellectually I was enjoying myself.

But emotionally?

It felt muted.

Like hearing your favorite song through a wall.

Still recognizable. Still beautiful.

Just distant.

Like joy was still nearby, just speaking from another room.

And somehow, that scares me more than sadness sometimes.

Not feeling nothing.

Just not fully feeling.

The highs, if this really is bipolar, are admittedly easier to laugh about. If you are somebody reading this who I randomly donated $500 to for your kid’s fundraiser despite barely knowing you, congratulations, you may have accidentally encountered a manic high.

Apparently my version of reckless behavior is philanthropy, ultramarathons, and believing caffeine counts as emotional regulation.

Could be worse.

In those seasons, I overexercise. I overcommit. I become irrationally optimistic about what can be accomplished through caffeine, ambition, and sheer stubbornness. I say yes to too many things. I believe I can somehow save the world.

Then the low comes.

And suddenly answering an email feels oddly difficult.

Maybe that is bipolar.

Maybe it is not.

Maybe life is just hard sometimes and we over-label struggling kids.

Maybe all of us are carrying invisible weather systems around and simply learn different ways to hide the rain.

I do know this has shaped relationships. If you ever went on a few dates with me, thought things were going really well, and then I suddenly pulled away, there is a decent chance this played a role. Not because I think I am broken. I know I have a lot to offer. But I also know what it feels like to quietly struggle, and I never wanted someone else to feel responsible for carrying that.

Maybe that fear says more about me than reality.

Most people probably would not even notice.

That is the strange thing about functioning while struggling.

Externally?

You look fine.

You work.

You joke.

You write.

You run absurd distances through forests for reasons nobody fully understands.

Internally?

Right now, at least, I am sad.

Not dramatically.

Not catastrophically.

Just quietly.

The kind of sadness that sits beside you without introducing itself.

Some of this is circumstance too. I am helping care for my dad now. Not complaining about that. My twin sister has done more than I could ever repay, and she deserves far more credit than me. I mostly help physically, meals, walks, keeping him safe. But it has also left me in a strange sort of limbo, stuck in Ohio while part of my heart still wanders beaches in Florida and desert trails out west. Responsibility mixed with uncertainty. Trying to care for someone else while still figuring out my own next steps.

Maybe some of that is weighing on me too.

Maybe all of it is.

I do not know.

What I do know is this:

I suspect there are people reading this who understand far more than they let on. People married with kids who quietly struggle and their spouse barely notices. People showing up to work every day while privately feeling like life takes three times the effort it used to. People smiling at weddings, birthday parties, soccer games, church on Sundays, work meetings, while quietly carrying something heavy nobody else can see.

If that is you, I see you.

Functioning people struggle too.

Even people who seem productive, funny, optimistic, or resilient sometimes quietly fight battles nobody sees.

And if you are in one of those seasons?

Keep going.

Pour the coffee.
Take the walk.
Answer one email.
Go through the motions if that is all you have.

Joy has a strange way of returning.

Slowly.
Quietly.
Sometimes inconveniently.

Like sunlight sneaking through blinds you forgot to open.

Like hearing your favorite song through the wall, then realizing, little by little, the volume is coming back.

And if you need someone?

I am here.

Even if I am struggling too.

Especially then.