What It Feels Like to Drown in Your Own Life

By Trinity Barnette

Last night I had a dream that I drowned.

I was out in the middle of the ocean, completely alone, sitting on a boat with no destination—just still, floating in the middle of nowhere. And then I jumped.

No one pushed me.

No one called out.

I just looked around, realized how far I was from shore, and let go.

And the scariest part?

I wasn’t even afraid.

I knew if I swam, I wouldn’t make it.

I knew if I stayed, I’d rot in place.

Either way, I was stuck in a vast, open nothingness—and my brain decided sinking would be easier than fighting.

It’s not always loud or theatrical.

Sometimes it’s silent resignation. Sometimes it’s staring out at your life and thinking, “What’s the point in trying to stay afloat when the waves just keep coming?”

It feels like you’re treading water in clothes soaked with expectations, responsibilities, fears, and failures—every single one pulling you down a little more each day.

And the worst part? Everyone on shore is yelling, “Just swim harder!”

Like you haven’t already been.

Like your arms aren’t numb.

Like you haven’t already swallowed half the ocean just trying to stay alive.

That’s the part people don’t understand.

Depression isn’t always about wanting to end everything—it’s about wanting something to end. The pressure. The weight. The constant performance of being okay when you’re anything but. It’s about craving silence in a world that never stops demanding things from you.

School demands.

Family demands.

Society’s expectations.

And beneath all of that, your own voice whispering, “Just hold on,” even when you don’t know what you’re holding on for.

You start to wonder what would happen if you just… stopped.

Stopped responding.

Stopped showing up.

Stopped pretending you’re not drowning.

It’s not about laziness. It’s not even about hopelessness.

It’s about being tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

About wanting peace so badly, you’d consider anything that feels like an exit—even if it’s just a dream you wake up from sweating, shaken, and strangely understood.

I woke up with that dream still wrapped around me like seaweed.

Tangled in the what-ifs.

Still stuck out there in the middle of the ocean.

But I didn’t die.

I didn’t drown.

I’m still here, writing this.

And maybe that doesn’t feel like a victory—but it’s something.

It’s a breath.

And some days, that’s all you get.

One breath. One small reminder that you’re still alive, even when everything in you feels like you shouldn’t be.

I don’t have an uplifting ending for this piece.

I’m still in the ocean.

I’m still tired.

I still look around and wonder if the shore even exists.

But I haven’t jumped again.

Not today.

And maybe that’s what survival looks like right now.

Not hope.

Not healing.

Just choosing not to jump, even when every wave tells you to.

If you’re out here too, floating with no shore in sight, I see you.

We don’t have to swim yet.

We just have to float.

Together.