I wish I listened to what others really had to say.
Not in the way I used to, scanning every word for clues on how to be accepted, how to be liked, how to finally feel enough.
But in the way that would have set me free.
In the way that asked: Do these people even care about me?
And if not, what am I doing here?
What can I do to elevate myself, to get out?
I didn’t know then what I know now.
I didn’t know that listening doesn’t just mean hearing, it means interpreting with wisdom.
It means recognizing when the words people say reveal more about them than they do about you.
And when the silence screams louder than anything.
Little me tried to warn me.
She whispered in quiet moments.
She tugged at my heart when I was bending too far, when I was shrinking to fit.
She said, This doesn’t feel right. This isn’t love.
She said, You don’t belong here.
She asked me to choose her. To protect her.
To leave.
But I didn’t listen.
And in not listening to her, I failed her.
I failed me.
But maybe this is where the real listening starts.
Maybe this is the part where I sit with her, with me, and say:
I’m here now. I hear you. I’m sorry.
And from this place, I choose differently.
