My Life. My Blog.

Dear woman who learned to survive too soon, There was a time when your softness was buried under chores and expectations. When your hands were small but already knew how to steady the world. When silence became your language because asking for help was dangerous. You didn’t get to be the girl who played. You became the one who managed. The one who held. The one who stayed steady while everyone else came undone. But I see you now. I see the girl who woke before dawn to keep th

Why couldn’t you see me? I was right there, reaching, shouting, begging Help me. See me. Be with me. But you couldn’t. You were looking through me, not at me, too wrapped in your own reflection to notice I was fading. You saw what I could give, the way I made your dreams easier, the way I poured light into your cracks. But you never saw me as the dream. I was the supply. The steady heartbeat keeping everything alive while I slowly disappeared. You said you loved me, but love

I tell myself that missing you will get easier. That loving you wasn’t working. I remind myself of all the ways we hurt — the words, the silence, the way I kept trying to prove I was enough. I replay it all. The things I could have said differently. The ways I split myself in two just to keep us alive. I feel two ways of loving you — like I can finally breathe again, and yet, somehow, I have no oxygen at all. There’s a strange calm here. A peace that might only be exhaustion