the luxury of falling apart

there is something uniquely american about having a mental breakdown in a very nice car.

hazard lights blinking.
lip gloss in the cupholder.
seat cooling on.
bank account overdrafted emotionally if not literally.

the strange thing about luxury is that people assume it protects you from suffering.

as if grief checks your tax bracket before entering.
as if panic attacks cannot survive marble countertops.
as if beautiful women in expensive shoes are somehow immune to devastation.

i have cried in places people would kill to stand in.

designer dressing rooms.
hospital parking garages.
dealership bathrooms with imported tile and flattering lighting.
school pickup lines.
king beds.
conference calls.
the driver’s seat.
always the driver’s seat.

there were seasons of my life where i looked the absolute best externally while internally hanging on by acrylic nails and blind faith.

hair done.
tan fresh.
gold jewelry.
calendar color coded.
smiling while discussing six figure decisions.

meanwhile my inner world looked like a house after a storm.

i think women become especially dangerous when they learn how to suffer beautifully.

because then nobody interrupts the destruction.

people applaud it.

they call you resilient.
composed.
inspiring.
graceful under pressure.

sometimes i wonder how many women are rewarded not for being healthy, but for being consumable while unwell.

the mother who never complains.
the executive who never breaks.
the wife who absorbs betrayal quietly.
the woman who still shows up polished while her body is begging her to stop.

there is a specific loneliness in being perceived as “having it all” while privately fantasizing about disappearing for a month and sleeping until your nervous system remembers what safety feels like.

and yet.

there is a luxury to falling apart eventually.

because at some point the performance becomes too expensive to maintain.

and when the mask finally cracks, when the image fractures, when the perfectly constructed woman can no longer carry the weight of everyone else’s expectations,

something honest finally gets oxygen.

maybe that is the real luxury.

not the car.
not the jewelry.
not the title.

the freedom of no longer pretending you are untouched by being alive.