The Thing About Being Broken

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt a strange, almost painful connection to Humpty Dumpty. On the surface, he is just a nursery rhyme character—an egg that falls and cannot be repaired. But to me, he was always more than that. He was a metaphor. A mirror.

The difference between us is that in my story, they kept putting me back on the wall. Again and again. Broken, barely held together, never truly healed. Just patched up enough to fall once more.

The first time I fell, something inside me shattered in a way no amount of care could fix. I lost faith in myself. I stopped believing there was value in a version of me that was cracked and incomplete. Still, time passed, and I learned to adapt. I sat back on the wall, not whole, not perfect, but proud that I had made it there at all.

And then I fell again.

That is the thing about being broken. You lose your balance. Everything feels harder. This time, the people around me tried too. They did their best to piece me together, but I was never the same. I became a collage of sharp edges, scars, and fragile repairs. With each fall, my fear grew—not only of the breaking, but of the repetition. I started to believe I was cursed to keep living out the same story.

Still, something inside me refused to stay down. I always climbed back up. I cannot say how many times it has happened; I stopped keeping track. What I do know is that every fall hurt as much as the one before it. People would rush to help, but eventually, their concern turned into questions. Why do you keep going back? Why not choose another wall?

The truth was simple. I did not want another wall. That one was mine. It carried my story, my longing, my hope.

But today was different. The wind came, as it always does. It knocked me down, sharp and cold. I braced for the break, for the scattering of pieces. But this time, I did not shatter.

And yet, something feels new. For the first time, I am not afraid of the fall. I am afraid of the climb. I am not sure I want to return to that wall. Not because I stopped loving it—I still do—but because I am beginning to wonder if there is another way to live. One that does not leave me constantly balancing between pride and pain.

Maybe the wall is not the only place I belong.