Lately, silence has become suspicious. People hear my absence and think it’s a cry for help. They don’t realise it’s relief.
When I began choosing myself – really choosing, not the performative “self-care” kind – people looked at me like I’d started speaking a language they didn’t understand. They called to check in, sent messages with careful punctuation, trying to decode what must have happened. Something must be wrong.
But nothing’s wrong.
I’m just quiet.
I’ve spent years being the reliable interpreter, the safe one who could read between words, fix tone, absorb the tension. It built a reputation: “She’s always there.” Until I wasn’t. And when I stopped being there, the silence became a disruption in other people’s comfort.
The truth is, I no longer want to be accessible by default. I don’t want my calm mistaken for capacity. I don’t want my kindness treated like public property.
There’s a loneliness in this, of course. People drift when you stop making space for them. They miss the version of you who held them together. But I don’t miss her. She was kind, but she was tired.
Distance isn’t the problem. It’s the recovery.