The image of the quiet hollow feels so true — not the loud storm of grief or overwhelm, but the emptiness that can come after too much has been carried for too long.
I spent a decade working for a disaster response organization, and we often moved from one disaster to the next with barely a breath for recovery. There was always another fire, flood, earthquake, crisis, or family in need. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood how much a person can hold before the inner landscape begins to feel hollowed out.
Your line about how “not every hurt must speak” especially moved me. Some wounds do not announce themselves. They simply wait in the quiet.
Thank you for naming this space so tenderly — and for leaving us with the possibility of a spark still waiting beneath the silence.
I get it, I’ve been doing nursing for 6 years now. I’ve worked psych, ER medsurg, elementary and now hospice. Between my job and the stuff I deal with on the personal side, it’s been a lot.
This beautifully captures that heavy, nameless kind of ache where the silence itself speaks volumes about what we've lost, while still holding onto that tiny, quiet thread of hope ✨
Yea, that’s exactly the kind of hollow. I feel like I’m not always a part of this world, or a part of the people in it. Like I’m just floating along hoping one day I land where I’m supposed to.
Here with you, sweet April, and deeply moved by your words. Things must feel really hard right now. Its' okay to cry. You've been juggling a lot of stressors lately, still managing to pour yourself into the lives of others. Know that I care. Know that I see you. Know that I'm praying and holding you close, my friend. Thank you for writing this and sharing the deep parts of yourself. It matters. Hold on. 💞🫂🌿
The line about not every hurt needing to speak in order to prove it has left someone weak feels especially true. Sometimes emptiness is difficult because it does not announce itself dramatically; it simply makes meaning feel far away for a while. I appreciate the way this poem sits with that quiet space without forcing it to become immediately bright or resolved. Thank you, April, for offering language for the kind of ache many people carry silently, and for still leaving room for the small spark that may be waiting beneath it.
What stayed with me most is the idea that not every hurt has to speak in order to be real.
The poem captures a quieter kind of pain, the kind that doesn’t arrive as a storm but as absence, stillness, and a room emptied of meaning.
That makes the final turn toward hope feel soft rather than forced...
💞😘
April, this poem struck me deeply.
The image of the quiet hollow feels so true — not the loud storm of grief or overwhelm, but the emptiness that can come after too much has been carried for too long.
I spent a decade working for a disaster response organization, and we often moved from one disaster to the next with barely a breath for recovery. There was always another fire, flood, earthquake, crisis, or family in need. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood how much a person can hold before the inner landscape begins to feel hollowed out.
Your line about how “not every hurt must speak” especially moved me. Some wounds do not announce themselves. They simply wait in the quiet.
Thank you for naming this space so tenderly — and for leaving us with the possibility of a spark still waiting beneath the silence.
I get it, I’ve been doing nursing for 6 years now. I’ve worked psych, ER medsurg, elementary and now hospice. Between my job and the stuff I deal with on the personal side, it’s been a lot.
April , this is beautiful and deeply resonating ❤️
💗🫂😘
This beautifully captures that heavy, nameless kind of ache where the silence itself speaks volumes about what we've lost, while still holding onto that tiny, quiet thread of hope ✨
Yea, that’s exactly the kind of hollow. I feel like I’m not always a part of this world, or a part of the people in it. Like I’m just floating along hoping one day I land where I’m supposed to.
I feel this ✨
🫂😘
A familiar moment beautifully expressed. <3
💗🫂
<3
This is me today.
me too. 😭🫂
Here with you, sweet April, and deeply moved by your words. Things must feel really hard right now. Its' okay to cry. You've been juggling a lot of stressors lately, still managing to pour yourself into the lives of others. Know that I care. Know that I see you. Know that I'm praying and holding you close, my friend. Thank you for writing this and sharing the deep parts of yourself. It matters. Hold on. 💞🫂🌿
The line about not every hurt needing to speak in order to prove it has left someone weak feels especially true. Sometimes emptiness is difficult because it does not announce itself dramatically; it simply makes meaning feel far away for a while. I appreciate the way this poem sits with that quiet space without forcing it to become immediately bright or resolved. Thank you, April, for offering language for the kind of ache many people carry silently, and for still leaving room for the small spark that may be waiting beneath it.
Sometimes the hardest pain to speak about is not the one that cries out. It is the one that remains silent and is still there.