🕰 The Things We Carry

When you grow up unheard,

you learn to hold conversations in your head.

I used to whisper to myself in the dark —

not out of madness, but survival.

I was the only one who listened.

I carried everything:

the secrets, the tension, the fear of saying the wrong thing.

I carried the sound of slammed doors,

and the silence that followed like a punishment.

I carried dreams I was told were too big,

and guilt that was never mine to keep.

It’s strange how the body remembers what the mind tries to forget.

My shoulders still tighten when voices rise.

My stomach still knots at the word lazy.

Every ache has an origin,

every tremor a memory trying to speak.

Sometimes I still talk to myself.

But now, the voice is softer —

less about surviving, more about soothing.

She reminds me that the load was never mine alone.

That I can set it down.

That I can rest.

💌 To the child who carried too much:

You don’t owe the world your strength.

You were never meant to hold it all.

It’s okay to be tired.

It’s okay to be free.