The Concern They Choose

It’s strange, isn’t it, how they’ll worry so,

When a woman finds her solo glow—

Living alone, traveling far and wide,

Claiming joy with no one by her side.

“She’s missing out,” they’ll softly lament,

As if her happiness isn’t meant.

Their concern feels sharp, their pity keen,

For a life so full, yet deemed unseen.

But place her instead in a weary grind,

With love that’s hollow and dreams confined,

A 9-to-5 that drains her soul,

A life half-lived, with no control.

Her household’s weight bends her spine,

Bills unpaid, no time to shine.

Her face reflects the toll she bears,

Yet silence greets her desperate stares.

No worry then, no words of care,

No whispers asking if it’s fair.

They only see what they believe—

The role she’s meant to never leave.

But let her rise, let her roam,

Let her claim the world as her own.

And if their concern still lingers there,

She’ll know it’s theirs, not hers, to bear.