How Did We Get Here
A podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
How Did We Get Here
Behind Closed Doors — The Weight We Carry Alone
Behind every closed door, there’s a story we don’t talk about.
Episode 18 explores the memories we carry alone, the weight of silence, and what it takes to finally reach for the “saw” that sets us free.
If you’ve ever held something in the dark… this one’s for you.
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🎙 How Did We Get Here?
How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
There’s a certain kind of quiet you only hear inside a house at night.
Not the peaceful kind — the other kind.
The kind that settles in the corners and says more than anyone in that house ever will.
A closed door.
A light on under the frame.
And someone sitting on the edge of their bed, staring at the floor.
Not crying.
Not breaking.
Just holding it together in the only place they feel like they can.
Behind closed doors… the world looks different.
Last time, we talked about the things we hide behind a simple phrase:
“I’m fine.”
How those two words can cover an entire storm.
But what happens when the storm never really leaves?
Because behind closed doors, there’s always more to the story.
The silence isn’t just silence — it’s a shield.
A place to hide the things we don’t want the world to see…
or the things we’re not ready to face ourselves.
And some of those things…
they don’t stay buried forever.
Some memories lie tucked away for years — untouched, ignored —
until one day, when you least expect it,
they start clawing their way back to the surface.
Piece by piece.
Like a bad B-movie horror villain you thought you’d already killed off.
At first, you question your own sanity.
You tell yourself, “No… that can’t be right.”
But as more pieces hit your conscious mind,
you know — deep down — they had to be real.
Didn’t they?
And then there are the other memories —
the ones that haunt you for life.
The ones you never speak about.
Or only share with people you trust implicitly —
usually because they carry the same wound,
the same shadow,
the same unspoken truth.
Carrying something alone changes you.
Not always in big, obvious ways —
but in quiet ones.
It shows up in your sleep:
the nights you stare at the ceiling replaying moments you wish you could forget.
It shows up in your body:
the tension you hold without realizing it,
the breath you never fully release.
And it shows up in your relationships:
the distance you create,
the walls you raise,
the conversations you avoid because you don’t want anyone to see the cracks.
And over time, those memories don’t just weigh on you — they shape you.
The cracks they leave behind?
Most people never see them.
But you do.
They influence how you react to certain situations.
How you move through the world.
How you view everyday things other people never think twice about.
Your attitude.
Your guard.
Your instinct to pull back or push forward.
Right or wrong, fair or unfair —
these memories carve themselves into the person you become.
And most of the time, through no fault of your own.
I’ve carried things too.
Not the kind you talk about at the dinner table.
Not the kind you casually mention to a stranger.
The kind that sits with you — quiet, patient —
waiting for the moment your guard drops just low enough for it to speak.
There were years where I didn’t know what to do with any of it.
Years where I learned how to function, how to move, how to smile —
while whole pieces of my past stayed locked behind my own closed doors.
Part of that silence came from fear:
- Fear of being judged
- Fear of being misunderstood
- Fear of being seen as less
And then there’s the other part —
the realization that some memories feel so dark, so heavy, and so twisted by time and pain,
that in your mind, they should never see the light of day.
So you keep them buried.
Not because you’re weak —
but because you’re human.
And if you’ve ever felt that,
you’re not alone.
But here’s the thing about carrying something alone:
Eventually… the weight starts to leak through the cracks.
Not all at once —
not in a dramatic breakdown —
but in small moments:
A tone you didn’t mean.
A thought that hits you out of nowhere.
A smell, a sound — a tiny trigger —
and suddenly you’re face-to-face with a memory you thought was dead.
You pause.
Your chest tightens.
And you don’t even know why.
That’s the quiet breaking point —
the moment your mind whispers:
“You can’t keep this inside forever.”
And here’s the truth most people never say out loud:
There are things —
secrets, traumas, scars —
that no matter how painful they are,
will always be yours.
Yours to hold.
Yours to navigate.
Yours alone.
But the other things — the ones that can be released —
those deserve air.
And when they do finally come forward,
they should be shared carefully —
with someone you trust,
someone who’s safe,
someone who’s earned the right to hear what you’ve carried.
Not every story needs to be told to the world.
But some stories shouldn’t have to be carried alone.
A lot of people misunderstand silence.
They think if you don’t talk about something,
it must not matter.
Or that you’ve moved on.
Or that you’re fine.
But most of the time, silence isn’t avoidance — it’s survival.
It’s protection.
It’s space to understand the truth on your own terms.
Silence doesn’t make you broken.
It doesn’t make you weak.
It means you’re protecting something until you’re ready.
And when the time comes to share even one small piece of it —
that isn’t weakness either.
That’s strength.
A different kind —
but strength all the same.
Some people know they need to move forward.
They feel it in their bones.
But the truth is —
the weight feels too heavy to even take the first step.
It’s like standing there saying:
“I know I need to cut these chains… but I don’t have a saw.”
And that’s where hopelessness creeps in.
When you’ve tried before and gotten nowhere.
When you’ve taken three steps forward and slid five steps back.
When you start believing maybe you’re meant to stay stuck.
But you’re not.
The answer isn’t pretending the chains aren’t there.
It’s finding someone — or something —
that can give you the saw.
A person.
A moment.
A memory.
A prayer.
A book.
A therapist.
A friend.
A reason.
A spark you didn’t expect.
Something — anything — that helps you cut just one link.
Then another.
And another.
Until one day,
you step forward and realize the weight isn’t what it used to be.
You don’t have to do it alone.
But you do have to reach for the saw —
even if your hand shakes when you grab it.
This is How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
I’m Jim Richmond.
And I’m still here for a reason.
Maybe you are too.