I didn’t walk out of that relationship; I staggered. Knees weak, pride in shreds, mascara smeared down both cheeks. People said “You’re so strong” and I wanted to scream that I wasn’t strong, I was barely upright. I crawled through days, slept in my clothes, ate standing over the sink. There was no elegant exit, no perfectly worded goodbye. Just survival, ugly and clumsy and real. I staggered into therapy, into new routines, into friendships that didn’t require performance. Slowly the stagger became a limp, then a slow walk, then something almost like steady. I bought stagger to remind myself.