for the ones who leave before they’re broken
There are days when showing up costs more than it gives.
You feel it before you can name it.
In the jaw that tightens.
In the breath that skips.
In the way your screen feels brighter than usual,
and your voice feels like it’s echoing back to no one.
We are taught to explain. To translate.
To make our exits reasonable, legible, polite.
But this is not that.
This is a quiet manual for leaving without spectacle.
For protecting your softness.
For holding onto what the world keeps asking you to give away.
1. Listen to the tremor.
Not the full collapse.
Not the spiral.
Not the point of exhaustion or shutdown.
Listen sooner. Listen earlier.
That flicker in your gut when someone says “can I ask you something?”
The flat tone your voice takes in the meeting.
The numbness that settles in your hands when you open the email.
That’s the moment.
That’s the window.
You don’t need to wait for crisis.
You are allowed to go
before you unravel.
2. Leave before you’re asked to perform it.
The longer you stay, the more they’ll want to see it.
The pain.
The breakdown.
The proof that you’re not just tired—but wounded.
Because when you disappear quietly, they get nervous.
They want a reason. A diagnosis. A narrative they can process.
Refuse the translation.
Refuse the trauma theatre.
Refuse the expectation that your no must be explained, softened, or made teachable.
You can exit in silence.
And that silence can be a full sentence.
3. Take the small exits. They count.
You don’t need to leave the institution.
You can leave the call.
You can leave the conversation.
You can leave the WhatsApp group.
You can leave for five minutes.
You can leave for five months.
Not all survival is dramatic.
Some of it is just:
“I’m not going to this event.”
or
“I’m not replying right now.”
We are allowed to step back without falling apart.
And sometimes stepping back is what keeps us from falling apart.
4. Stop narrating your no.
You do not owe an origin story.
You do not owe a justification.
You do not owe context, citations, or clarity.
We live in a culture that mistakes access for entitlement.
That confuses transparency with care.
That expects Black queer survival to be narrated in the key of pedagogy.
Let them sit with the silence.
Let them wonder.
Let them misread you.
That’s not your responsibility.
Your no does not need subtitles.
5. Let someone you trust hold the knowing.
Refusal does not mean isolation.
Refusal does not mean self-erasure.
You can still reach out.
Not to explain—but to be witnessed.
Tell one person:
“I had to leave.”
“I’m choosing quiet.”
“I need care, not questions.”
Let your no be mirrored by someone who won’t try to fix it.
Let it be honoured like a prayer.
6. If you want to be found, leave breadcrumbs.
You don’t have to go ghost.
You can leave a note.
A post.
A playlist.
A timestamp.
A song only one person will understand.
Not everything sacred needs to be hidden.
But you get to decide:
who sees it,
who finds it,
who earns the right to follow.
The Exit Is Its Own Kind of Arrival.
They’ll say you’re avoiding.
They’ll say you’re unreliable.
They’ll say you’re disappearing.
Let them.
What they see as abandonment
might actually be a return.
A return to your breath.
To your boundaries.
To your own pacing.
You are not ghosting them.
You are re-entering your own orbit.
You are refusing to be consumed.
You do not owe your exhaustion as evidence.
You do not owe your breakdown as a learning moment.
You are allowed to leave. Without offering your body as proof.