Stagnation Smells Like a Body You Forgot to Bury

“Nothing changes if nothing changes. But something dies when you pretend it doesn’t need to.” — Anonymous

I stayed too long.
Not in a job or a town—
in a version of myself
that hated me politely.

He never screamed.
He offered reasonable doubt,
good intentions,
a list of fears in perfect cursive.

And I listened.
Even when the mold crept up the wall.
Even when my dreams began coughing.
I didn’t leave.
I just painted over the spots
and called it healing.

“Growth is not painless, but stagnation is a quiet death.”

Growth has a violence to it. But it’s the kind you consent to. It pulls at the root only after asking if you're ready to bleed. Most people aren't. Most people wait until stagnation has done the job for them. Until the room gets so quiet, they forget what wanting used to sound like.

Pain gets a bad reputation. But pain is honest. It yanks you out of illusion and throws you into the fire that still remembers your name. Stagnation, though—it seduces. It talks like comfort. It speaks like logic. It says, “Maybe this is enough.” And sometimes that lie feels safer than the risk of movement.

We don’t stay stuck because we’re lazy. We stay because we’re loyal. Loyal to who we once were. Loyal to the person who built this survival. But that version of you was built for a crisis that already passed. And if you keep choosing them, you’ll keep living in an memory that was never meant to be permanent.

Change doesn’t arrive with trumpets. It arrives like a final warning. Like breath running out. Like the moment you realize your tolerance for pain has become your identity. By the time you ask, “Is this killing me?”, it already is.

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