The Fever That Broke Me Open

When vulnerability breaks through the walls you built

Created in Midjourney

I wake up with a jolt.

It’s 3 a.m. and I’m crying.

Not the quiet, controlled kind of tears you might see in a movie. No. This is the raw, messy, ugly crying—the kind that comes before you even know what’s happening, before your mind can catch up with your body. It’s a flood of emotion that hits like a wave, and by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s already too late. The tears are already falling.

I hate crying. I’ve always hated it. But tonight, I can’t stop.

I’ve been sick for three days—fever, chills, aches, disorientation. My body is worn out, exhausted from battling whatever virus has taken over. But even in this fog of fever and flu, my first instinct isn’t concern. It’s shame.

I shouldn’t be crying. There’s no reason to cry. That’s what my mind says.

Because my mind has been meticulously trained, over years and years, to believe that crying is a weakness. That tears are for babies, for those who are fragile, for those who can’t handle life’s hard knocks.

I grew up in communist Poland, during the Solidarity movement—a time when rebellion meant throwing Molotov cocktails at tanks, not shedding tears. Tears were for the weak. The indulgent. The ones who didn’t have the strength to keep going.

I remember the woman we all admired—the one on the tractor. She was the symbol of resilience. Tough. Silent. Efficient. When the tractor broke down, she didn’t cry. She fixed it.

That image of strength seared itself into my DNA. And for years, I carried that same ethos: toughness, efficiency, and a relentless drive to solve problems. It became my badge of honor, especially in the corporate world, where I spent 15 years. There’s no room for tears in boardrooms. No bandwidth for emotion when you’re juggling deadlines and metrics. In that world, efficiency is currency.

Then, I pivoted to the world of education. And everything changed.

Suddenly, I found myself swimming in a sea of emotions: students with trauma. Parents with heartache. Teachers worn thin from caring too much.

It was a tidal wave of feelings that I was unprepared for. Crying here wasn’t a breakdown—it was part of the healing process. Six years in, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now, right? You’d think I’d be better at sitting with emotion.

In some ways, I have softened. But here’s the truth: no matter how much inner work you do, some reflexes are etched deep into your nervous system. And my reflex has always been to suppress. Get up. Get dressed. Push through. And definitely—not cry at 3 a.m.

Who Am I If I’m Not Doing?

So why was I crying?

Not from the physical pain. Not from the fever. But from guilt.

Guilt for being sick. Guilt for being unproductive. Guilt for needing rest.

I should be working, I thought. I should be fixing. I should be useful.

The shoulds came flooding in, a courtroom full of internal critics, all demanding my attention, all judging me for taking time off to heal.

And here’s the thing—I knew better. I knew no one at work wanted my germs. I knew everything was handled. My team had my back, practically begging me to rest and recover.

But knowing doesn’t always help. Because being sick wasn’t just about a virus. It was about my identity.

Who am I, if I’m not producing? Who am I, if I’m not solving problems? Who am I, if I’m just lying in bed?

There’s a kind of withdrawal that happens when we stop doing. When our value is no longer measured by output. When the spreadsheet is blank and the inbox is ignored.

In that liminal space, I came face-to-face with a question I’ve been avoiding for decades:

Can I be loved, worthy, and whole when I’m not being useful?

The answer didn’t come in words. It came in the slow rhythm of tears sliding down my cheeks. It came in the stillness of a body too weak to perform. It came in the surrender of a moment that didn’t need fixing.

I didn’t need to prove anything. I didn’t need to earn my rest. I just needed to be.

Permission to Be, Not Do

Lying there in the dark, something shifted inside me. Not in some dramatic, cinematic way—but in a quiet, subtle way. Like winter giving way to spring—not with a bang, but with a slow, steady thawing.

I didn’t stop crying immediately. But I did stop resisting.

I let myself cry. I let the guilt wash over me—and then, I let it drift away.

I thought about that woman on the tractor. How she never cried. How we worshipped her strength, her stoicism. But maybe—just maybe—there’s another kind of strength. A strength that doesn’t come from pushing through, from being the toughest in the room. Maybe true strength comes from letting go.

And in that quiet room, drenched in moonlight and sweat, I made a decision:

To stop measuring my worth by what I produce. To stop apologizing for being human. To stop holding my breath, waiting for the moment when I “feel better” so I could prove I was strong again.

Instead, I gave myself permission. Permission to pause. Permission to be soft. Permission to heal.

Because the truth is, healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t always come in the form of soup and sleep. Sometimes, it comes through tears at 3 a.m.—when your body refuses to pretend, and your spirit finally speaks up.

Now, a few days later, my fever is gone. But something else has left me, too: the compulsion to earn my rest.

I still catch myself slipping into "doing" mode. But now, when I do, I ask myself a new question:

Am I being a human doing? Or am I allowing myself to be a human being?

It’s not easy. It’s not automatic. But it’s worth it.

So today, wherever you are—sick or well, thriving or struggling—pause for a moment.

Ask yourself: Are you being? Or are you performing?

Because your value isn’t in your productivity. It’s in your presence.

And maybe—just maybe—your tears are not a breakdown, but a breakthrough. Not a failure, but a form of freedom.

Let them fall. Let yourself be. Let yourself heal.

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And if you're ready to explore your voice, deepen your courage, and build a body of work that reflects your healing and your real story, not just the highlight reel, join me inside Courage to Create.

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Special thanks to

Sarah Fay

for teaching me about the art of an “authentic voice.”