A few days before Christmas Eve, I told my friend about the plans I had. I told him I was going to two different parties, that I’d get double the food and double the fun. I painted a picture of a perfect night, and he smiled, nodding in approval. It sounded great, didn’t it?

But the truth is, it wasn’t great. Not even close.

The parties were held on the same day—one at my mom’s, and the other at my dad’s. The idea seemed harmless at first, two celebrations, two chances to make memories. But when I walked from one to the other, all I could feel was the weight of the invisible rope pulling me in two directions. My mom and dad, both of them silently competing for me, for my time, for my presence.

I became the rope in their tug-of-war.

I tried to tell myself it wasn’t that bad. I tried to convince myself that I could handle it, that I was strong enough to endure the strain. I could go from one party to the next, make small talk, pretend everything was fine. But every step I took felt heavier, the distance between the two worlds growing with each passing minute. I felt like I was being torn apart, and I couldn’t escape it.

Neither of them saw it. They didn’t understand. To them, I was just there, at each party, moving through the motions. But they didn’t see how much it hurt to be pulled in two directions, how much it stung to know they were quietly competing for something they should have been able to share. I didn’t know how to tell them that it wasn’t just exhausting, it was destroying me.

I couldn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was too scared. Scared of how they would react. Scared that if I told them how it felt, they would be angry, or worse—dismissive. I didn’t want them to feel like they weren’t enough, or that I didn’t care about them. And so, I said nothing. I just went along with their silent battle, smiling through the pain, pretending like everything was okay.

But inside, I wasn’t okay.

At night, when the parties ended and the silence settled in, it all hit me. The weight of the day, the weight of the guilt, the weight of being torn between two lives. I cried then, when no one was watching. When I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I cried because I couldn’t speak the truth, couldn’t find the words to say how suffocating it all was.

I was afraid. Afraid of what they might think, afraid of what might happen if I opened up. I didn’t know what it was that held me back, but it was as if something deep inside me was telling me not to speak, not to complain, not to ask for anything more.

But that fear, that silence—it was changing me. Slowly. It was becoming who I was, this person who couldn’t ask for what they needed, who couldn’t speak their mind. It was turning me into someone I didn’t recognize, someone who was no longer sure who they were anymore. And that scared me more than anything. Because the more I held it in, the more it defined me, the more it took me away from myself. And I didn’t know how to stop it.

I didn’t know if I ever could.