I keep thinking back to the year I didn’t say anything.
Not because I didn’t have the words — I had too many. They just sat heavy in my chest like furniture no one helped me move.
And now that I’ve finally spoken, it’s funny — everyone acts like the silence was the problem.
Not the reason behind it. Not the weight that made it necessary.
Just the discomfort of not having me in their group chat rhythm.
What I’ve realised is this:
People don’t miss you.
They miss their version of you — the one that didn’t hold mirrors, only towels to mop up what spilled from them.
The “therapist they didn’t hire.”
The daughter-sister-partner-friend who kept showing up with wisdom and wit and warnings and spreadsheets…
Only to be told she was too intense for asking why the roof kept leaking.
They called it peace.
But it was just rot under the carpet.
Today, I am irritated. Not angry — irritated.
There’s a difference.
Anger wants to fix.
Irritation just wants space.
I said what needed saying.
With precision. With heart. With more clarity than they knew what to do with.
And what I got back?
“I hear you. Thank you.”
Not: I get it.
Not: I’ve thought about what you said.
Just… thank you — like I handed them a flyer they’ll toss in a few minutes.
The hardest part isn’t the rejection.
It’s the absence of effort.
The knowledge that this, this, is as far as they’ll go.
And it’s still not enough to meet me where I am.
Sometimes, the bridge doesn’t burn.
You just realise you’re the only one who ever crossed it.
And so you walk off it. Quietly. With your spine tall and your throat unclenched.
That’s where I am now.
Not at war.
Not performing peace.
Just… done explaining the fire to people holding water and still choosing drought.