The world is fucking weird.

I don’t know what to call this feeling today except off — the kind of off that makes you stop and ask, what the hell is wrong with me? A few days back I wrote about body image and self‑esteem; since then I’ve realized something nastier under it all: I have been, for a very long time, on the receiving end of a steady drip of emotional abuse. Little undermining comments. Slow, patient erasure of my worth. The kind that trains you to wait for validation like it’s dessert.

And yet, somehow, in that chaos there were parts of me that were always respected — not by lovers I picked because they were fun, or convenient, or easy — but by people who learned to watch my back in a different language: my Army buddies.

I joined because everybody around me was joining. I didn’t have a neon sign saying patriot on my chest. But I learned what kind of person I could be in that strange, loud classroom of service. I learned competence and silliness and how to be relied upon. And the odd thing is, of all the chapters in my life, those are the ones I look back on with the most gratitude.

If I pick up the phone now at some ridiculous hour, there’s almost always a soldier on the other end ready to listen, to tell me to shut the hell up, or to remind me to breathe. Those friends are quick to notice when something’s off on my social feed and even quicker to check in. That kind of attention isn’t casual — it’s habit, built from long, repetitive practice in watching for each other.

After the Army, life became a different kind of war. I wandered into relationships that looked shiny on the outside and were full of landmines underneath. Some of the people I trusted were, frankly, unworthy of that trust. They taught me new ways of being small. I learned to disappear a little at a time to keep the peace, to edit myself for someone else’s comfort. For a long time my self‑worth was on a shaky raft; every criticism was a leak.

It wasn’t until the last fragile months of my partner’s life that I started to feel the possibility of my own value again. That realization was like learning to walk after being pushed down for years: awkward, painful, and very slow. But the thing about old habits is they die hard. Grief and anniversaries pull the rug out from under you, and those familiar corrosive voices — whether they came from partners, from culture, or from inside my head — still show up with the old lines.

So what do you do when the old shame rolls up like an unwelcome tide? You practice self‑care like a stubborn hobby. You call that friend who answers at two in the morning. You text the buddy who’ll say, “Get your ass outside and breathe,” and when you can’t do that — you sit with the discomfort and let it be messy.

A friend said something that landed: “In the absence of proper care and feeding, friends devolve into acquaintances and acquaintances forget you.” His mother said it first — because why would the mothers of the world be wrong about basic survival tips for the heart? It’s painfully true. People drift for reasons that often have nothing to do with you: discomfort with grief, tired patience for someone’s unhealthy coping, the quiet way social media reduces relationships to performance.

And yet — and yet — I have people who haven’t drifted. I have friends who stay. The Army taught me this again and again: there are people who will answer the call, and there are people who won’t. That truth is a kind of map you can use when everything else feels unmoored.

I was honest with the veterans crisis line last night, and yes, they asked the hard question: am I a danger to myself? I am not. I have no desire to unalive myself. I have seen enough to know there are reasons to stay. And if you are reading this and you are struggling too, please please: reach out. The crisis line isn’t judgmental — it’s practical. If you’re in the U.S., dial or text 988, or use the veterans crisis text line by texting 838255. If you’re elsewhere, find your local line. Don’t let silence be the place where everything collapses.

Empathy matters. It’s not some viral trend or political label — it’s a goddamn life preservative. You don’t have to agree with everyone, but you can try to understand. Maybe that’s what held the Army together for me: we learned to be useful to each other in practical, small ways.

I love my mom and my dog and the weird little rituals that keep me tethered. I love the friends who have refused to let me drift into the background. If you’re one of them — if you read this and you’ve ever shot me a message at 2 a.m. or sat with me while I said things that didn’t make sense — thank you. You saved me from myself more than once.

For the rest of you trying to claw your way back from weariness and shame: be stubborn with self‑care. Let friends in who actually feed you. Let the others go without thinking less of yourself. You are not required to make yourself small so other people can feel big.

And if you are like me, and you carry those army‑forged friendships around like a soft, scarred atlas — cherish them. They are not fancy. They are honest. They are loyal. They keep you standing when the world gets weird.