There comes a point where the rope burns your palms more than the tug is worth.
That point, for me, wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with slammed doors or a final fight. It came quietly—after the fourth explanation, the eighth attempt, the twelfth reel sent into a void.
After I realised I’d written essays that should’ve been therapy sessions—and they still said, “I don’t understand.”
It’s not that they don’t care. It’s that they need things to make sense on their terms.
Wrapped in calm. Packaged in politeness. Preferably leading back to how things used to be.
But how things used to be nearly broke me.
So when I stopped performing peace, they called it punishment.
When I drew a boundary, they called it abandonment.
When I explained—again—they said I was looping.
Too much. Too direct. Too something.
But the truth is, I was just done being the container.
Done holding shame that wasn’t mine.
Done catching the mess so no one else had to look at it.
Done explaining hurt to people who kept mistaking pain for performance.
And still, there’s that old ache.
The one that whispers, Maybe if I explain it differently… maybe if I soften it more… maybe if I just send one more reel…
But I know better now.
I know that if someone needs the truth to be shrink-wrapped in comfort before they can touch it, they’re not ready to hold it.
I know that silence isn’t always peace—it’s sometimes just a refusal to stretch.
I know that not everyone who misses you, misses you.
Sometimes, they just miss the version of you that made their life easier.
So I stopped pulling the rope.
And in the stillness that followed, I felt grief.
Grief for the sisterhood I wanted.
Grief for the clarity I hoped would be enough.
Grief for the versions of us that could have been, if only.
But here’s what else I felt:
Relief.
Relief from bending.
Relief from explaining.
Relief from convincing people that I deserve to be taken seriously when I say this hurts me.
I still love them. That hasn’t changed.
But I’m learning to love them without hoping they’ll meet me here.
I’m learning to hold space without holding the consequences.
I’m learning that the people I needed to stretch may never stretch.
And I’ll build my life anyway.
If they do their work and meet me later, I’ll be here.
But I’m not pausing my healing while they decide if discomfort is worth it.
This isn’t revenge. It’s not a test.
It’s just me choosing myself, fully, finally, and without performance.
I don’t need to win. I just need to be free.