The Quiet Storm We Carry

𝘉𝘺 𝘊𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘈𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 | #𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘺𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦

It sneaks in quietly.

At first, you think you are just tired. You tell yourself the stress is temporary. The frustration will pass. The heaviness will lift. You show up to the game with your same routines. You lead warmups. You coach with all your heart. You cheer for your teammates. You get in the car afterward and smile because that is what people expect. And maybe you are fine. But maybe not.

Because this time, when you told them “I’m fine,” something inside you flinched. It was not a lie, but it was not the full truth either.

Behind every “I’m fine” is a storm waiting for permission to be real.

Catharsis is not the collapse. It is the cleansing.

Some athletes cry behind the bench, not because they lost, but because the silence after the final whistle was louder than the cheers. Some coaches get in their car after a tournament and feel like they coached their heart out only to be met with side eyes, politics, or gossip. Some parents sit in the stands feeling invisible, pouring their love into a kid who seems to be slipping away behind cold glances and long silences.

That is where it begins.

We start holding it all in. We push it deeper. We pretend we are unaffected. We make jokes. We post wins. We go again. But something in the joy gets dull. Something in the rhythm starts dragging. The light we once had begins flickering, and no one notices.

And maybe that is the most exhausting part. Not the burnout. Not the exhaustion. Not even the disappointment.

It is the pretending.

When did it become brave to fake it?

We talk about hard work. We talk about commitment. But we do not talk enough about emotional fatigue. The invisible weight of being the leader. The pressure of being the reliable one. The friend who always listens. The athlete who always performs. The coach who always knows what to say. The parent who always has it together.

Sometimes we break. But we break beautifully.

Catharsis is not weakness. It is the sacred space between holding it together and setting it free. It is the moment the tears fall without asking for permission. It is the shout into the towel in the locker room. It is the quiet drive home with music so loud it numbs the noise inside.

Catharsis is not the end of your strength. It is the proof that you have been carrying too much.

In our world, we reward stoicism. We admire the athletes who stay cool under pressure. We clap for coaches who never lose their temper. But inside, many of them are drowning silently. What if we changed that narrative?

What if we told them it is okay to cry. It is okay to scream. It is okay to feel. And then go again.

Because healing does not mean you stop hurting. It means you keep going without hiding.

Some people find catharsis on the court. They dive. They swing. They run until the world blurs and all that is left is the pulse of the game.

But what happens when volleyball itself becomes the weight?

For me, volleyball has always been the catharsis of life. But when the game itself feels too heavy, I find my own release in music, in writing like this, in books, in learning something new, in doing something different even when I struggle or do not enjoy it. That is where I let go. That is where I cleanse. That is where I come back stronger.

We all need a place like that.

If you do not have it yet, go find it. And if you already have it, protect it.

Let it heal you without needing applause. Let it change you without needing permission.

Because behind every quiet athlete, behind every tired coach, behind every discouraged parent, there is a storm.

And storms do not mean you are broken.

They mean it is time to let the rain fall.