Whispers of the Soul

In the darkness of a quiet house, a girl stands still.

She is not quiet because she has nothing to say,

but because every word inside her has been measured, filtered,

and carefully left unspoken.

In the darkness of a quiet house, a girl stands still.

She is not quiet because she has nothing to say,

but because every word inside her has been measured, filtered,

and carefully left unspoken.

Words are stones in her throat — heavy, risky,

too frequently taken the wrong way.

Her existence is one of expectations —

of doing the right thing, the safe thing,

of what other people have already decided for her

before she ever had a chance to try anything for herself.

They remind her to be thankful, to stay the course established with love,

as if the only loving thing to do was to obey.

She knows she is loved.

And perhaps she is.

But love, she has realized,

can be bound in chains —

invisible to the world,

but agonizingly heavy to the soul.

Her parents hold her close,

unaware that sometimes their hug is more like a cage.

Protection is control, they say.

Care is discipline, they think.

But in her heart, there is confusion:

Why does love have to feel so claustrophobic?

They plan out her life for her —

every second, every breath, staged ahead.

They challenge her decisions, her interests,

even the tiniest variation from the script they've penned.

She's living like she's in a performance,

a life where her own voice is not welcome.

They silence that voice in the name of protection,

labeling it as immature, unrealistic, naive.

Her dreams are derided as fantasy,

her desires denied as rebellion.

There is no option for argument,

no haven for feeling, for tears, for questions.

Her spirit warps and twists under the pressure of these unspoken expectations,

but still — it doesn't break.

Still, she clings.

In the stillness of her bedroom,

away from the judging eyes and criticizing tones,

she lets the tears flow.

Not because she's weak —

but because nobody seems to see

how much strength she's had to muster for so many years.

Every tear holds the question:

"Why can't I just be me?"

What sin is there in dreaming her own dreams?

In desiring the right to make her own mistakes?

In wanting the right to choose her own life?

She grips her heart — a shining, vulnerable thing —

and questions whether she shall ever be unshackled enough

to allow it to beat without guilt or fear.

But within her, a spark awakens.

A whisper — initially faint, then insistent:

You deserve more. You deserve to make your own choices.

It isn't defiance.

It's not about walking away from love.

It's about walking towards something —

her truth, her self, her voice.

In order to heal, she is aware that she needs to speak.

Even if her voice shakes,

even if it trembles under years of silence and oppression.

She needs to speak, not just to others,

but to herself as well.

She needs to believe — truly believe —

that her life is hers.

That her dreams are acceptable.

That her light was never intended to be extinguished

to make others safe.

She begins small.

A diary entry.

A hidden tune hummed beneath her breath.

A poem jotted on the edge of a notebook.

In these small acts of rebellion,

she begins to take herself back.

With each word, each note, each line,

she pulls a little more of herself out of the shadows.

She dreams that someday,

her parents will get it.

That they will see her not as someone to protect,

but someone to walk with.

That their love need not cage her to keep her safe.

That she was never attempting to flee —

only attempting to be.

May they have wisdom in their hearts.

May they recognize her strength as courage, not disobedience.

May they understand that freedom is not the opposite of love,

but the arena where love can breathe and grow.

Every girl should have that space.

To laugh without guilt.

To weep without shame.

To fall and still be held close.

To exist not by permission, but by choice.

To become herself — fully and without apology.

To be.

Her journey has just begun.

But already, the chains are falling away.

Already, the murmurs of her heart

are becoming a melody the world can finally hear.