Một dòng thở nhẹ – Nhật ký Thiền

Some people run because of work.
Some run because of pressure.
Some run because of fear of the future.

But there are those who run
because of something far more silent,
far more hidden:

old wounds.

I run not because of what is happening now,
but because of what happened long ago —
things I thought I had forgotten,
things I thought I had healed,
things I thought no longer had power over me.

But the body remembers.
The heart remembers.
The past remembers.

And so I run.

I run from the voice that once hurt me.
I run from the hands that once pushed me away.
I run from the silence that once abandoned me.
I run from the fear that once swallowed me whole.

I run from the child I used to be —
the one who learned too early
that love can disappear,
that safety can break,
that trust can shatter.

People see me running
and think I’m ambitious,
driven,
strong.

They don’t know
I’m running so the past won’t catch me.

They don’t know
I’m running so I won’t feel
what I once felt.

They don’t know
I’m running because slowing down
means remembering.

And remembering hurts.

There are nights I lie awake
and feel the old ache rising —
a familiar heaviness,
a familiar fear.

I tell myself:

“It’s over.”
“It’s in the past.”
“You’re safe now.”

But the heart doesn’t understand time
the way the mind does.

The heart still flinches.
The heart still hides.
The heart still runs.

I don’t know when I’ll stop.
I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.
I don’t know if healing means
walking back into the places
I once escaped.

But I know one thing:

I’m not running toward anything.
I’m running away from something
that once broke me.

And sometimes,
just having someone understand that
is enough to make the running
feel a little less lonely.