If I could speak honestly without fear, what would I tell someone I trust?

If I could speak openly—without the worry of being misunderstood, without the fear of sounding dramatic or fragile—the very first truth I would confess is that I am tired. And not in the simple, everyday way that a full night of sleep can soothe. It’s a deeper sort of tiredness, the kind that settles low in the chest like a quiet weight, the kind that hums beneath my ribs no matter how much I rest.

It’s the exhaustion that comes from carrying myself through each day with a steady smile, even when something inside feels slightly unbalanced, tilted just enough that I feel it but hope no one else does. I’d explain that I try, almost to a fault, not to let anyone down. Even when I’m stretched thin, even when I’m unsure how much more I can give, I keep offering pieces of myself as if it’s my responsibility to stay strong for everyone but me.

And if honesty came easier, I’d admit that fear still shows up in unexpected ways. I’m not afraid of living, not really. I’m afraid of being too much—too emotional, too sensitive, too intense—or not enough, leaving people disappointed, wishing they’d expected less from me. I’d confess how I overthink conversations long after they’re finished, replaying every word and every moment, wondering if I should have said more, or less, or nothing at all.

People sometimes mistake my silence for distance, or coldness, or disinterest. But really, it’s self-protection. When I go quiet, it’s usually because I’m trying not to fall apart where others can see. I retreat not because I don’t care, but because I care so deeply that I fear any small crack might split me open.

The truth is, I don’t need anyone to fix anything. I don’t want quick answers or perfectly wrapped advice. What I long for is presence—someone steady enough to stay, patient enough to listen without interrupting, and gentle enough to remind me that it’s okay to be flawed and uncertain. I want someone who won’t shrink away from my messiness or the parts of me that feel a little undone. Someone who can simply exist beside me, in the quiet, without demanding that I be something shinier or stronger than I am.

And maybe, if I give myself permission to speak these truths—even softly—I’ll learn that honesty isn’t as frightening as I’ve made it out to be. Maybe it’s less of a confession and more of a return, a small act of courage that guides me back to the person I’ve slowly drifted away from.

Because sometimes the words I am most afraid to say are the very words my heart has been waiting for someone to hear. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there is waiting for them too.