Every time I return to the page, I shudder.
I’ve grappled with how much to say—how much to protect the people I love.
And lately, I’ve been sitting with a harder question:
By holding back, who am I really protecting—others or myself?
Today, I wrote about the first time I left my body. I was ten.
What I didn’t say was why leaving felt easier. Staying would have meant admitting that the people who loved me asked me to swallow my truth. Acknowledging it would have required them to confront their own.
Part of me understands that.
The other part is still grieving.
I’m learning to hold compassion for both.
With each page, I see the versions of myself I’ve been, the secrets I’ve kept, the silence I mistook for protection.
I arrive at the same place:
The parts of me that people call “too much” or “too loud” are the very pieces I’ve been searching for. I thought I would find them in a partner, but what I was truly after was myself, the parts I swallowed.
Silence is a burden we carry until we have the courage to speak.
Even when it makes us shake.
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