People say consistency is a good thing.

A virtue. A strength.

Something to be proud of.

But to me?

Consistency feels like drowning on dry land.

It's my lungs begging

please, please stop

while I keep going.

The air thick as concrete in my chest,

and I'm still breathing it in,

still trying to make it look easy.

Consistency means pushing

when my body is screaming no,

when every muscle turns traitor,

when stopping feels like the only mercy

I could ever give myself.

But I don't stop.

I keep going when I'm tired.

I keep going when I'm scared.

I keep going when failure is breathing down my neck,

so close I can feel its breath

louder than any applause,

louder than any praise I've ever heard.

Consistency.

Such a simple word.

Just ten letters.

But it weighs like a hundred.

Heavy on my tongue.

Heavier on my shoulders.

Heaviest in my bones.

It doesn't care about my excuses,

doesn't care that I'm falling apart.

It just keeps asking the same question:

Will you show up again?

And I hate that the answer is always

yes.

Even when I have nothing left.

Even when faith feels like a foreign language.

I show up.

My sweat.

My tears.

My everything.

That's what consistency costs.

And maybe that's why it doesn't feel like achievement

it feels like survival