Breaking Point

They say,

"You’ll reach your breaking point."

Like I’m some cheap IKEA shelf,

held together by two screws and a prayer.

Like life is just one bad day away from turning me into

a "before" picture in a disaster documentary.

But who decided breaking was the only option?

Who said pressure makes us snap instead of shift?

Who said we fracture instead of fold?

I’ve seen metal bend under heat but never disappear.

I’ve seen trees lean so far in the wind you'd swear they’d fall,

but when the storm is over,

they are still standing.

So tell me,

why do we believe in breaking?

Why do we measure struggle in terms of collapse?

Why do we think the only way to change is to shatter?

I used to believe it too—

that there was a limit, a point where I’d crack,

where the weight of expectation would split me open

and spill out everything I had tried to hold together.

For the longest time, I treated writing like a tightrope.

Neatly formatted, double-spaced, thesis-driven,

safe.

A place where I could hide behind structure,

where no one could point and laugh,

because you can’t make fun of a five-paragraph essay

if it follows all the rules.

But words were never meant to be caged.

They don’t break under pressure, they spill over—and for the first time, I let them.

First in whispers, then in floods,

first in margins, then on pages,

until they refused to be small anymore.

I used to think creativity was a risk I couldn’t afford.

That writing without walls meant opening myself to judgment.

But I’ve spent too long making myself smaller,

too long fearing what happens if I step outside the lines.

So now?

Now I am done playing it safe.

Done stuffing myself into paragraphs that don’t fit.

Done letting fear decide what I get to say.

This is not breaking.

This is becoming.

This is the shape I was always meant to take.

Connor Cheung