A tiny beach in a small Sardinian town meant to be my escape from burnout. The scorching sun reflected off the turquoise water, making it seem even warmer than it really was. I leaned back in my lounge chair, absently stirring the foam in my cappuccino. Life carried on around me: relaxed tourists, noisy kids, a man struggling to keep his dog on a leash.
And then I saw him.
Lying face down in the shallow water, between two anchored boats. A man collapsed into himself, shoulders slumped, head cradled in his hands. It seemed like the only thing keeping him afloat was the sand beneath him. Strong, tattooed arms revealed prominent veins and a few old scars. On another day, he might have looked like a Greek god. But today, he seemed made of wet paper.
I sat still, watching him. Something felt off. Then I noticed the slight shaking of his shoulders, a tremor that signaled a sob long suppressed. A man crying in the sea. And not the silent, dignified tear that men are taught to suppress. No. This was the kind of crying that wrecks you—shaking muscles, gasping breaths, raw emotion pouring out like a dam finally breaking. The kind of grief you hold inside for months, maybe years, until one ordinary day, it spills over like a glass knocked off a table. My stomach clenched.
I looked again at the man sobbing, his whole body shaking, right there, in paradise. I judged him. I was unsettled by him. I admired him. In my exhausted mind, two scenarios played out:
- Walk over, place a hand on his shoulder, and mutter something useless like, “It’ll be okay.”
- Grab my husband and kids, pack up my things, and get the hell out—because I was hanging by a thread myself, and if I saw one more crack in someone else, I might shatter.
Of course, I did neither.
I just sat there, observing him like a rare specimen. Another burned-out soul, stranded on this beach with me, reflected in the perfect water. I ran my fingers over my dark circles and wondered, really wondered, if I looked just like him. A wreck. A person made of wet paper, just not broken in public yet.
It was so hard to watch this scene. Because I had never allowed myself to get there, especially not in public. Because if I let myself feel the pain I had been holding in, I was afraid I would never be able to stop. I’ve always struggled to see someone cry. Not because I lacked empathy, but because for as long as I can remember, I was taught to swallow the lump in my throat, take a deep breath, and keep going. Tears had no place. “Be strong,” “Don’t whine,” “Crying won’t fix anything.” These were echoes of a lifetime spent bracing myself. So I did what I knew best. I clenched my teeth. For years, in the face of every pain, every injustice, every loss, I blamed myself and built walls. I stacked them high with overtime hours, checked-off lists, achievements, anything that could keep me busy and away from myself. And slowly, but surely, every swallowed tear turned into an invisible weight on my shoulders. I never noticed when it became too much. Or maybe I did, but I pretended it wasn’t there. Until my body finally hit the brakes for me. Burnout.
And now I was here, clumsily trying to put myself back together, convincing my mind and body that I deserved this break. But all I could feel was guilt for not being able to enjoy this little piece of paradise that seemed to enchant everyone else.
Eventually, he wiped his face with the back of his hand. He stood up and walked toward me, eyes swollen, slightly disoriented, as if only now realising where he was. And before I could filter my thoughts, the words escaped my lips:
— There are days like this too, ha?
He looked up, still lost.
— Days? His voice was hoarse. Today, I just ran out of places to hide.
I didn’t say anything. Just nodded, not knowing if I was agreeing or simply understanding. I felt warmth behind my eyes, a lump that refused to be swallowed, a rush of relief and panic at the same time. Before I knew it, tears were running down my cheeks. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to stop them. I didn’t try to hide them. There, on that perfect beach, I came undone too. No one saved me. I didn’t save anyone. But among people, I found the courage to stop hiding.
“One day, I’ll write about this from a place of healing,” I told myself.