“You don’t give up when you can’t give up.”
I didn’t write that to sound deep.

I wrote it because it was the only thing keeping me alive.

My survival chant.

The only thing keeping me standing

when everything around me said “let go.”
I couldn’t give up.

I didn’t have the luxury to give up.

Not because I’m stronger than most—

but because I knew what was at stake.

If I gave up, the pain wins.

The patterns repeat.

The cycle continues.
And I refuse to pass that down.
So I told myself:
This ends with me.

The silence.

The suffering.

The struggle passed down like inheritance.
If I gave up,

then my future children—

and their children—

would be handed the very thing I was born into.
Chains I never asked for.

Wounds I never caused.

But still carried.
I chose to carry that weight,

not because I wanted to,

but because someone had to.
The word “give up” became a curse in my vocabulary.

An abomination.

A forbidden thought.

Because it’s easy to say you won’t give up.

It’s a whole different battle

to actually not give up—

to keep showing up

when no one claps,

no one helps,

no one sees.
Some are born into healing

because someone before them—

a parent, a grandparent,

maybe a great-grandparent—

chose to fight.

Chose to heal.

Chose to break the cycle.
And some of us?

We were born into the battle.
But even then—

we still get to choose.
Why not you?

Why not now?
What if no one before you ever stopped the pattern?

What if nobody handed you peace?
Then maybe—just maybe—

it’s meant to be you.
I did it.

Not because I had superhuman strength.

But because I refused to surrender.

Because I made giving up a sin.

Because I looked ahead

and saw a generation waiting for me to decide.
By pain.

By fire.

By blood.

By scars.

By God’s grace—

I broke the cycle.
And now,

I live to tell the story.”