Some hurts are easier to carry in silence,
where no one can twist them into a joke.
I don’t tell people I hurt. I shared my soul with someone once and was told to just suck it up. Another said, you can’t be weak—what will that do to me? As if my pain was an inconvenience, as if my honesty was something to be ashamed of.
I opened myself to a church friend once, laid out the deepest parts of me, and the ridicule that followed broke something I’ve never quite repaired.
I’m older now, and wiser in the ways that come from scars. Most things don’t matter the way they used to. The world keeps moving, and I’ve learned to move with it quietly.
I’d rather sit alone with my thoughts than risk being laughed at for feeling anything at all. Solitude may be heavy, but it’s a weight I can hold without flinching.
I don’t share my plans anymore either. People can’t ruin what they never know. Some things are safer kept close— my hopes, my hurts, my next steps— all tucked away where no careless voice can bruise them.
So I live quietly now, guarded but not bitter, strong in the places no one sees, and at peace with the truth that my heart is safest in my own hands.
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