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’ve felt an odd, almost painful connection to Humpty Dumpty. On the surface, he’s just a nursery rhyme—an egg on a wall who falls and can’t be put back together again. 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—over and over again. Broken, barely held together, not truly healed. Just propped up long enough to fall again.

The first time I fell, something inside me shattered that no amount of care or glue could fix. I lost my belief in myself. I couldn’t see value in a version of me that wasn’t whole. But time passed, and I adapted. I sat back on the wall—not mended, not perfect—but proud. Proud of simply being there despite the cracks.

And then I fell again.

That’s the thing about being broken—you lose your balance. Everything becomes harder. This time, the people around me tried harder too. They pieced me back together the best they could. But I wasn’t the same. I was a collage of sharp edges, old wounds, and makeshift repairs. And with each fall, I became more afraid. Not just of the break, but of the cycle. I began to believe I was cursed—doomed to repeat this pattern of falling, fracturing, rebuilding.

Still, something in me refused to stay down. I always climbed back onto that wall. I don’t know how many times it’s happened—I stopped counting. All I know is that every fall hurt just as much as the last. People would rush to help, then slowly begin to question me. Why do you keep going back? Why not find another wall? A safer place?

And the truth was simple: I didn’t want another wall. That one was mine. It held my story. My longing. My hope.

But today was different. The wind came again, violent and cold. It knocked me down like it always does. I hit the ground hard, and I cried out in pain. But this time… I didn’t break.

Still, something feels unfamiliar. For the first time, I’m afraid—not of falling, but of climbing back up. I’m not sure if I want to. Not because I don’t love my place on the wall. I do. But maybe there’s another way to exist. One that doesn’t involve constantly teetering between pride and pain.

Maybe sitting on a wall isn’t the only place I belong.