There’s a quiet unraveling that happens
when your needs become whispers even you stop listening to.
Not because anyone silenced them,
but because you’ve been taught to make room.
To understand.
To extend grace.
To notice others, even when you feel invisible.
Lately, I’ve been sitting with this strange ache—
the ache of being noticed, but not fully known.
Of being almost met.
And how that “almost” can stretch into miles inside the heart.
I’ve been asking myself hard questions:
Where have I abandoned myself in the name of peace?
Where have I softened so much, I forgot how to stand?
Where did I start believing that patience is the same as being okay?
This isn’t about blame.
It’s about coming home to myself.
Because I’ve realized—
there’s a difference between someone being aware of you
and someone considering you in their choices, tone, and timing.
And when you’re someone who loves deeply, you may begin to excuse the difference.
But underneath all this reflection, there’s another truth surfacing.
A truth I’ve been afraid to name.
The sadness I feel in my gut?
It’s anger.
Not the kind that screams.
Not the kind that shatters dishes or slams doors.
It’s quieter than that—
a steady, gnawing hum that lives behind my ribs,
saying, “This isn’t what I deserve.”
I was never taught how to make space for that anger.
I learned to fold it into sadness
because sadness is easier for others to sit with.
It’s softer.
More palatable.
More “appropriate” for someone like me.
Someone taught to smile through discomfort.
To earn love by making others comfortable.
To never inconvenience anyone with my pain.
But lately, that anger has stopped letting me silence it.
It rises in the lump in my throat.
In the tension in my jaw when I say “it’s fine” but I’m lying.
In the tears I cry alone,
not because I’m fragile—
but because I’m finally telling the truth.
I am allowed to be angry that I have felt unseen.
I am allowed to grieve the parts of me that have gone unmet.
I am allowed to want more.
And I am learning that anger, when honored,
is not destruction.
It is a compass.
It points to where I have been holding back too much for too long.
So I’m practicing.
Letting the anger exist without guilt.
Letting the sadness speak without shame.
Letting the silence stay a little longer—until I can tell the difference between discomfort and danger.
Because some silences need to stretch.
Not as punishment.
But as protection.
As pause.
As sacred space to decide what I will no longer explain away.
And here’s what I’m learning, slowly:
I don’t need to soften every edge.
I don’t need to prove I’m still gentle while bleeding.
I can be loving and still draw lines.
I can be understanding and still say enough.
My love remains,
but it no longer performs.
It no longer bends itself into approval.
It no longer over-functions just to feel safe.
It sits beside me now.
It asks me what I need.
And when the world goes quiet—when no one else notices—
I notice.
I respond.
I consider myself.
This is not the ending of anything.
This is the reckoning before the renewal.
The sacred middle ground where I stop running,
and finally—finally—
stay with myself.
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💌 Note to the Reader:
If you’ve ever felt the ache of being almost understood… if you’ve ever sat with sadness that turned out to be buried anger… if you’re somewhere in the middle of softening and standing tall—
please know, you are not alone.
This space was written for you, too.
For your quiet courage.
For your unsaid truths.
For the fierce love you keep giving—even as you learn to give it to yourself first.
Stay with you.
You are worth the effort.
Every. Single. Time.
Unfiltered. Raw. Me.
~Cassandra