Not Everyone Breaks Loudly
Do you notice the drizzle before the rain? That subtle shift in energy before a thunderstorm? The crackling in the air, promising something between darkness and release? It’s something you can observe in people too… the slightly slower replies, the moments where someone pulls back just enough for it to feel different, but not enough for you to say anything.
Most people don’t notice. Or they notice too late. They wait for something more obvious. Something real. Something less mysterious and more tangible. A breakdown. A dramatic silence. Maybe even tears. But not everyone breaks like that. Not everyone breaks loudly.
Some people fall apart while still showing up with a smile. They reply to messages. They go to work. They do what needs to be done. They ask about your day. They smile through all of it. You wouldn’t know anything is wrong unless you were really paying attention. And even then, you might second-guess it. Because these are the people who always seem to be fine. Reliable. Capable. Unshakeable. Unbreakable.
They’re the ones who hold everyone else. Who check in when you’ve gone quiet. Who sense your mood before you’ve figured it out yourself. Who listen. Who remember. Who make space for your chaos without making it about them. And they never ask for anything in return… not really… not while they’re taking care of you.
You get used to them being solid. Present. Uncomplicated. But what you don’t see is the part where they don’t let themselves unravel. Not in front of anyone. Maybe not even in private. They’ve been holding things together for so long that falling apart feels unfamiliar. Maybe even dangerous. They are living in restraints. With restraint.
When they start slipping, it’s quiet. Their messages get shorter. Or they stop sending them altogether. They go from being fully there to slightly elsewhere. Still functioning. Still polite. Still kind. But something is missing. And if you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it too. The smile is still there… but the light in their eyes is slightly dimmer.
They won’t ask for help. They won’t say, “I don’t feel like myself right now.” They won’t say, “Please notice I’m not okay.” Because if they have to say it, it already feels like they’ve failed at being who they’ve always been for everyone else. It feels like a failure. And it opens a path to a spiral they’ve been trying hard to avoid.
The truth is, they want someone to notice without being told. To show up anyway. To see the cracks in the places they’ve tried so carefully to keep smooth. To say, “I see you” before they vanish completely. They long to be understood without translation… without needing to amplify themselves… because they like to stay invisible… even when they need to be seen.
And I know that’s a lot to ask. But it’s what they need. What I need, if I’m being honest. Not a saviour. Not a solution. Just someone who pays enough attention to realise that being quiet doesn’t always mean being fine.
So if someone close to you starts to pull back a little, don’t ignore it. Don’t chalk it up to them being busy or tired or “just the way they are.” Ask again. Stay close. Notice the drizzle. Because some people won’t break in front of you… but they still need to be held. Even if they never say it.
And all this said: I’m quiet, but I’m alright. Physically and mentally, I’m okay. I’m tired, but not unravelled. I don’t need to be held. Not right now. This post is a reaction… maybe even a message to the woman I was in 2018. It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to ask for help. Even if the 2018 me still needed almost five more years to realise it.
I still believe the drizzle matters. The almosts. The nearly-unspoken. The things that seem small but mean everything. That’s where people slip through unnoticed. And that’s where we need to start seeing each other better.
I still often feel it too. But less.
And that feels… like growing up, or turning mellow.
Becoming wiser and more aware with age.
Or maybe… is this healing?
International Women’s Day
Every year, International Women’s Day comes around, bringing with it social media posts, corporate statements, and reminders of how far we have come; and how far we still have to go. I appreciate the sentiment, but I can’t help but wonder what happens when the day is over. When the hashtags fade and everyone returns to business as usual.
At 42, I am fully myself. A mother of two teenage daughters and a 20-year-old son, a preschool teacher, a writer. I move through life with a deep awareness of what it means to be a woman. Not just in the grand, historical sense, but in the everyday reality of expectations, invisible labour, and the contradictions we navigate.
I teach young children, and in them, I see the rawest versions of society’s norms taking shape. Girls who start out bold, only to be told to be good and nice. Boys who are gentle but quickly learn that emotions are a liability. It starts early and seeps into everything unless we make a conscious effort to change it.
That is the thing about equality. It is not just about opportunities in the workplace or the right to vote. It has to exist in every part of life, even the inconvenient and uncomfortable ones. It has to be there in the way household responsibilities are shared, in the way boys are taught to respect boundaries, in the way girls are encouraged to take up space without apology. It has to be there when it is messy, when it is hard, when it challenges the systems that benefit from things staying the same.
I celebrate my daughters, who question, challenge, and refuse to accept that things are just the way they are. I celebrate my son, who understands that strength has nothing to do with suppression. I celebrate every woman and girl who demands more, not just today, but every day.
And I remind myself that this is not just about one day in March. It is about the choices we make daily. The things we let slide. The words we challenge. The lessons we pass down. Because equality is not something we acknowledge when it is convenient. It is something we live in every moment, whether the world is ready for it or not.
Claimed, but you don’t own me
Ever since my birthday, I have been noticing things. It started when I posted a selfie. A picture I liked. A picture taken at the right angle, in the right light, making me look beautiful. However conceited it sounds, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t post a picture I don’t like.
And then the messages started. Men slipping into my Instagram DMs, saying they want to be friends. Good friends. As if friendship is something you can offer a stranger like a cup of coffee. But we both know why they are here. They saw the picture. Not my words. Not my mind. Just a moment where I looked a little less ordinary. And that was enough.
Most of these messages come from men. So I say it right away. I am married. I have three kids. A simple fact. A shield. A way to make them go away. Sometimes it works. Other times, it doesn’t. Happily? one asked. What am I supposed to say to a stranger? Of course, happily. And if I wasn’t? I’d be even happier married if it meant I didn’t have to engage with him. The assumption that my happiness is theirs to question, that my life is theirs to measure, makes me uncomfortable.
But it happens all the time. A test. A challenge. As if they believe persistence will wear me down. As if no is an invitation to try harder.
I have my usual answer ready. I am not a nice person. I am rather rude. I am not looking for new friends. But most don’t take no for an answer. They ask more questions. They dig.
And here’s the thing. Even though I claim to be rude, I am not. I reply, but only in short sentences. Only when I feel like it. I try to be boring. To make them lose interest. But rejection is hard for me too. I know what it’s like to be ignored. To be met with silence. And yet. That doesn’t mean I owe them my time.
Tonight, a young man was angry. He told me I was disrespectful for seeing his messages and not replying. The messages were simple. Hi. How r u. I didn’t have the time or the interest. So I moved on. That was disrespectful, he said. As if my silence was an insult. As if I had wronged him. And for a second, I almost agreed. Almost.
But I never invited him into my life. Never asked him to message me. Never promised a reply. I told him from the start that I am not a nice person. That I am not looking for this. That I do not want this. And yet he persisted. And when I didn’t give him what he felt he was owed, he got angry.
It keeps happening. People conflate visibility with accessibility. As if sharing a thought or a picture means I belong to them. Means they have a right to my time. A message is not a key. It does not unlock a door.
And as I overthink, I notice something else. I am ranting about a tiny thing. Attention. And isn’t attention why we post on social media? Why we update our blogs? Why we share our thoughts at all? Shouldn’t I be grateful for every visitor? Every person who sees me? Do I owe them something? Anything? I give them my words, my poems, my thoughts. My wisdom – that’s probably too strong a word, but it fits anyway. What else do they want? And what do I deserve?
I sit here in my little bubble, complaining about nine messages. It’s not much. But it’s enough to preoccupy my mind. Maybe that’s the real problem. Not the messages. Not the men. But me. The fact that I let it bother me at all. The fact that I let it take up space in my thoughts when it could have been ignored completely.
I don’t think I am important. I don’t think I deserve your attention. I am grateful for it, but I don’t expect it. And yet, I write, hoping someone reads. Hoping someone stays. Because isn’t that what we all want? A sign that we matter?
And isn’t this where it all comes full circle? Who am I to demand your time, your likes, your comments, your views? And who are they to demand mine? Maybe none of us deserve attention. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s the whole point.
about me
Greetings and salutations,
Hello, and thank you for being here.
My name is Catherine, but you can call me Cathy. I am a poet, a storyteller, and a collector of fleeting moments. I write because I do not know how not to. Words tend to spill out, sometimes uninvited, always looking for a place to land. This blog is where I give them one.
I was born in 1983 in Luxembourg. I live in the space between work and wonder, motherhood and music. When I am not writing, I work in early childhood education, helping small humans explore the world through play. I grow and learn with them, and together we find answers to questions that often matter more than they seem to at first glance. I adore my job.
I am fluent in Luxembourgish, French, and German, but English is the language where my inner world finds its voice most naturally. I write in echoes, in accents, in fragments of what I cannot always say aloud. My poetry is not soft. It is raw, honest, and often tangled with longing. It speaks of silence and survival, of love and loss, of all the things we hold on to and all the ones that slip through our fingers.
I did not grow up writing poems. That part of me came later, although I had written a few before I recognised them for what they were. It felt like finding breath underwater. Since starting this blog in 2012, I have been slowly carving out a space for my voice and letting it grow into its own shape.
Much of what I write is fiction, especially the poetry. But the feelings behind it are real. My writing is shaped by music, by film, by memory and by the need to make sense of the things I do not always know how to say. I write because something inside me needs to be set free. And if you are here, maybe something in you does too.
Where to Find Me
This blog is where most of my words live. But if you want slightly more:
SoundCloud – Spoken poetry and collaborations.
Bandcamp / Discogs – For those curious about the music that shapes me.
My Instagram is private. I post there, but not often.
Some of my words have found their way into books. If you want to hold them in your hands, you can find them here.
Collaborations & Contact
I have worked with musicians and photographers, blending words with sound and image. If you think my writing could be part of something you are creating, feel free to reach out: cathy@boom.lu.
Disclaimer
The words on this blog are mine. If they are not, I will say so.
My stories are fiction, even when they feel true. My poetry is truth, even when it is not mine alone. Any resemblance to people or places is entirely coincidental. No post is aimed at anyone unless clearly stated. The music mentioned or linked here is not mine.
Please do not copy, repost, or republish any content without written permission.
© 2012–2025 micqu.org. All content is original and protected.
Intelligence
is intelligence inherent or is it something one can learn? Can intelligence be taught or is it something that comes natural. Is intelligence an insult or a compliment?
In the last days I’ve been called intelligent several times. Does that mean I was stupid before? Did I hide my intelligence? Did I get more intelligent?
All those questions are asked without taking it all too serious. I am sure there is an answer to it all somewhere, but it might be too scientific and over my head.
I was wondering though, in earnest, if intelligence has to do with age. As one gets older, they experience more, are exposed to more information, and probably (hopefully) learn to differentiate between facts and fiction; truths and lies.
And the more I think about it, I think – and that’s my own personal opinion, I think being curious about life, the world, and everything that happens improves intelligence too. Reading up to find answers to your questions. Searching for information to understand what you don’t understand.
In my case, I mentioned above that I was called intelligent for different reasons: once for mostly reading in English and German with neither being my native language. But, here in Luxembourg, most people grow up with at least three languages, some even with five. It’s normal here to speak and read in several languages. Not everyone is confident, comfortable or fluent in all of them, but the basis knowledge is there anyway.
Secondly, I voiced my opinions about national politics and tax changes that will be set in motion in January. If I share my opinions about politics, I add facts and explain how I came to my conclusions. Politics and religions are topics that always potentially lead to arguments. I often avoid sharing my thoughts and just listen to those conversations, but I am also a grown-up who is affected by what is happening in our country (and in the world too). I can’t always be silent. But, I think before I speak. Not always. Often enough though.
Third time I was called intelligent, I think they misused the word. We were talking about music and I had a lot to say, many facts, many songs I know, stuff like that. For me, that’s nothing to do with intelligence. It’s something I like. If I liked paintings, I would surly know about the painters and their biographies too.
I had a couple of very nice days recently, spending them with people I like and love, laughing until our cheeks hurt. Last night for example, I spent at a Christmas dinner with my ex-co-workers. I was invited spontaneously, and I admit, usually I would have found an excuse to not go, but I liked the team and my bosses. It felt right to go there. And we had a lot of fun. I am glad I went. My best friend put it like this: you are liked. And I felt liked for sure. I mean, they did not have to invite me, but they did. For me, it’s kind of a big deal because I never felt very included anywhere. I don’t have many friends (mainly that’s okay right now). I have many acquaintances, and sometimes I get the feeling they would want to be friends, but I keep them at arm’s length anyway.
Stop! This is not what I wanted to write about when I started this post.
The next three posts will be parts of the story. They are scheduled (like all the other chapters that were posted before and will be posted until January). You’re still the one is the same way I left it in 2015. I should have at least edited the chapters to get rid of cringeworthy grammar and spelling, but I didn’t. It’s the authentic first draft of that story.
Read you soon…
Oh and I would love to hear your thoughts about intelligence. Sound off in the comments!
PS: this is the 100 post in a row… it was a personal goal I wanted to reach, so I am a bit proud that I managed to keep the streak alive.
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Allow me to be awake in your dreams, for seven seconds only; or until the new day begins. It is the only place where I am safe and can breathe without fear of suffocating.
fear
Fear. I don’t know fear. I never have. I am not able to feel fear. Well, maybe I am, but I am not allowed to feel it. Fear lets one make mistakes and mistakes are deadly. Fear. I am afraid to feel it. To be paralyzed by it. To let it rule me. But here I am and I feel it creeping up my spine and spreading on my neck. Sweat is forming on my forehead, my view becomes blurry. I cannot afford to lose my senses, but here I am; blind, deaf, mute. I cannot see because sweat is continually dripping into my eyes and I can’t wipe it away or make it stop. I cannot hear because the pounding of my own pulse is the only noise in my head. My blood and my thoughts. White noise. The rest of the world is silent. I am silent too. I am silent. Deaf. Mute. Wordless. Barely existing. Nobody knows that I am alive. If I die, nobody knows that I ever existed. Fear. I was never able to feel fear. Now I do. I made mistakes. They paralyzed me. Fear. I don’t know fear. I am fear. I am ruled by it. Fuck fear. Fuck anxiety. I just want to hear, to breathe, to speak. I want to be me. Fuck fear…
reflections of an unquiet mind 