The Weight I Carried in Silence

I was always the one who listened.

The one who remembered your birthdays.

The one who made sure you felt seen when the world turned its back.

They called me "a light," "a healer," "a safe place."

But no one asked what happens when a safe place floods.

Or when the light flickers quietly in the dark.

I carried your storms without letting mine show.

I showed up for everyone — even when I couldn’t show up for myself.

They say I’m strong.

But strength has a cost when no one asks what it's built on.

There were days when I screamed in silence.

My voice was buried under everyone else's needs.

I’d stare at my phone, hoping someone would message first.

Not because I needed help —

But because I wanted someone to remember I exist beyond what I give.

I remember skipping a call once. I was exhausted.

Not angry, not distant — just… tired.

And they texted,

"You’ve changed."

Yes, I have.

I became someone who started whispering instead of roaring.

Because roaring never brought anyone close — it just echoed off the empty walls.

Sometimes I wish someone would notice the way I breathe.

Not when I'm laughing for them — but when I'm just… being.

Quiet. Hollow. Tired.

I’m not asking to be saved.

I’m asking to be seen.

There’s a kind of loneliness only caregivers understand —

Where you’re never alone, yet constantly forgotten.

Where people trust you with their wounds but never ask about yours.

But I’ve stopped waiting now.

Because healing doesn't always come from others.

Sometimes it begins when you finally decide to stop bleeding for people who won't even offer a bandage.

To the one who carries everyone:

You’re allowed to put it down.

You’re allowed to rest.

You’re allowed to exist — without being strong.

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