There are days when I have pulled to the side of the road, turned on my hazards, rolled the windows up, and cried like the world was ending.
Not loudly. Just enough for my body to unclench.
Enough for the tears to move before they turn into something harder to carry.
Cars rush by, unaware. It looks like I’m waiting. And maybe I am; waiting for the strength to continue.

I’d like to think that every woman has her own private collapse site.
Not the dramatic kind. Quiet.
The ones we steal in fragments because life doesn’t give us the luxury of breaking fully.

Sometimes I fall apart in the shower, letting the water disguise the sound of grief, anger, exhaustion, or the inexplicable loneliness that comes even when you are surrounded by people.
The tile becomes a confessional.
The water, a witness.

Other nights, it’s the kitchen floor.
Everyone else asleep, the house finally still, and me sitting on the cold tiles with my back against a cabinet door, legs sprawled, letting the day spill out of me. There’s something about the kitchen – the heart of the home – that feels like the only place where I can let mine crack quietly.

I have had moments in the office bathroom, gripping the sink for dear life, breathing like someone learning how lungs work, then splashing cold water on my face until I can assemble the smile required to return to my desk.

And then there is the matter of privacy; the rarest currency for women. A luxury, even. So we improvise.
A matatu window where you pretend the wind is making your eyes water.
A corner of the compound behind the clothesline.
A stairwell no one uses.
The space between two responsibilities where you can stand still for thirty seconds.

Women learn to create sanctuaries out of whatever the world gives us: scraps of silence, borrowed corners, thin slices of solitude carved out of chaos.
We learn how to disappear in plain sight, just long enough to breathe.

Where do women go to fall apart?
Anywhere we can.
Everywhere we must.

Because women are not afforded public unraveling.
Strength has been stapled to our identities.
Composure, stitched to our reputation.
Silence, endurance, resilience – all the things people praise us for – are the very things that trap us when we need help.

We break in private because the world only allows us to be tired quietly.
Because someone always needs something from us.
Because we are the anchors, the planners, the emotional shock absorbers.
Because we grow up learning to cry in bathrooms, not living rooms.
Because vulnerability is seen as weakness, and weakness is punished.

And yet, even in the places where we fall apart, there is always another woman’s softness waiting for us; quiet, instinctive, unannounced.

Women create sanctuaries for each other in ways that feel almost spiritual.

A friend who sends a voice note at midnight because she “just felt you were holding too much.”
A sister who doesn’t ask questions, just shows up with wine and a blanket.
A neighbour who knocks softly and says, “I made extra food, come eat,” even though she’s carrying her own storms.
A colleague who follows you into the bathroom, not to pry, but to stand guard so you can cry safely behind a locked door.
A salonist whose hands become prayer as she oils your scalp and murmurs, “It’s okay, breathe.”
A woman you barely know who presses a tissue into your hand, or a moment of grace.
A stranger online who replies to your post with, “You’re not alone.”

No ceremony.
No grand gestures.
Just doorways women build for each other to collapse through gently.

There is no training for this; no manual, no title, no applause.
It is instinct.
It is inheritance.
The quiet architecture of care we learned from our mothers, aunties, cousins, church women, salon women, market women.

And maybe we don’t talk about it enough – how women hold one another in ways the world never holds us.

Maybe we should. We should normalize saying:
“I don’t have strength today; can I borrow yours?”
And replying:
“Yes. Sit. Rest. I’ve got you.”

Because if the world insists on being hard, then women must insist on being soft for each other.
Not fragile. Soft.
Soft enough to melt hurt; to remind someone she’s still whole, even in her breaking.

And maybe the world would be kinder if we stopped wearing armour around other women.
If we let ourselves be caught while falling.
If we dared to say:
“Come. Here is a room where you don’t have to perform strength.”

Because every woman deserves that.
A sanctuary.
A refuge.
A woman-shaped doorway out of the weight she carries.

If we can’t find these spaces, we can create them.
A kitchen table.
A couch.
A late-night call.
A WhatsApp group where honesty is allowed.
A salon chair.
A friendship held together by shared gentleness.

This, too, is survival.
This, too, is healing.
This, too, is resistance.

I used to think falling apart meant failure.
Now I think it means honesty – a truth the body refuses to swallow any longer.

Every woman deserves a place where she can put the weight down.
Even if it’s the side of a busy road.
Even if it’s a bathroom stall.
Even if it’s the kitchen floor at midnight.
Even if it’s her own two hands holding her face.

I believe with my chest, that falling apart is not the end. It is an opening.
A small, sacred pause.
A moment where the world stops demanding and, for once, we stop complying.

It shouldn’t be something to hide. It needs to be seen for what it is: simply, the body saying: I, too, need softness.