She didn’t speak in words, but in heat, in breath, in the ache behind my ribs:
“You are not responsible for their feelings.”
…I used to believe otherwise.
I shackled my worth to people’s moods, contorted myself into someone else’s idea.
I made myself small.
I apologized for existing.
The fear of abandonment, of rejection, of being too much and not enough at the same time.
Boy, what a time.
Then came the revolt.
I told myself I didn’t care.
I wore detachment like armor.
If I couldn’t please them—fuck them.
I became loud with boundaries and quiet with vulnerability.
But I wasn’t free.
I was still ruled—by them.
Then came a knowing:
That I can hold space without setting myself aflame.
That my needs matter.
And that theirs did too.
I was not taught this.
I was taught to blame—either myself or them.
I was taught to focus on them and to lose myself.
I’ve learned: feelings are not caused by others, but shaped by how we receive them—filtered through our own needs and expectations.
Now, my work is to OWN that.
This is hard to learn.
Trauma trained me to see everything and everyone as dangerous.
I forgot how to play.
I forgot how to imagine.
But my body remembered, even when my mind forgot.
And shame clung deep.
But pleasure is not sin.
So I began to ask myself:
What makes me feel good?
Can I ask—clearly—for what I want?
Can I speak in a language that is not vague or coded in shame?
Instead of “Don’t ignore me,”
I would say, “Would you be willing to check in?”
Instead of “You don’t care,”
I would say, “I feel lonely and need connection.”
This is power.
I wasn’t given these tools—I had to make them.
Walking around yearning, yet terrified to feel it.
Risk, with clarity.
For the child in me who never learned.
For the adult in me who is still learning.
Knowing it’s safe to say:
I don’t know where I’m going.
But I promise: I know the way.
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