Unspoken Words

Today reminded me that being an adult

doesn’t always mean being treated like one.

I thought adulthood would come with a certain respect

that once you show up every day,

do the work, take responsibility,

your voice would naturally carry weight.

But today proved again that titles and effort

don’t always translate into being heard.

I went to work, our work,

the family company,

where the history is thicker than the walls

and expectations are inherited before they’re earned.

Here, my last name speaks before I do.

It opens doors but closes mouths,

and mine feels like one of them.

I’m not just an employee here;

I’m a role someone else decided for me long ago.

I spoke carefully today.

I always do.

I measure my tone,

replay my words in my head

before letting them leave my mouth.

I try not to sound emotional,

or defensive,

or too confident,

or too quiet.

Still, somehow, my words were bent

folded into shapes I never made.

A sentence became an accusation,

a thought became a flaw,

and my intention was lost

somewhere between assumption and judgment.

What I said wasn’t what they heard.

It rarely is.

There’s a strange exhaustion

that comes from constantly having to explain

that you didn’t mean what they decided you meant.

It feels like speaking through fog,

watching people nod while missing the point entirely.

Instead, their voices echo louder

than their actions ever do.

They speak with certainty,

with authority that’s never questioned.

Mistakes vanish when they make them

brushed aside as stress, pressure,

or just “how things are.”

But mine are framed and hung on walls,

revisited in conversations months later,

used as proof that I should speak less,

try harder,

be better.

No one noticed their tone today.

No one mentioned the interruptions,

the sighs,

the way decisions were already made

before I was asked my opinion.

They dismiss before they listen,

correct before they understand.

But every move I made

was watched closely,

measured,

like I was already guilty of something

I hadn’t even done yet.

I try so hard to be professional.

I remind myself that this is a workplace,

that emotions don’t belong in meetings,

that feedback isn’t personal.

I tell myself to separate business from blood

but the lines blur when family

forgets to look at themselves.

When criticism feels less like guidance

and more like control,

less like teamwork

and more like hierarchy disguised as love.

It hurts in a quiet way.

Not the kind of hurt that explodes,

not the kind that demands an argument.

It’s the slow ache of feeling unseen,

of realizing that no matter how much you grow,

someone will always remember you

as who you used to be.

This is the kind of hurt

you swallow during the day

and write down at night instead.

I replay conversations in my head,

wondering if I should have spoken less,

or differently,

or not at all.

I wonder how many times I’ve shrunk myself

just to keep the peace,

how often I’ve chosen silence

because it felt safer than being misunderstood again.

Still, I know who I am.

I know my intentions were clean.

I know I came from a place of care,

of wanting things to work,

of wanting to belong here

without constantly defending myself.

I just wish, for once,

they would hear me

without twisting me into someone I’m not.

Maybe tomorrow will be easier.

Maybe it won’t.

Some days feel like progress,

others like reminders

that growth isn’t always recognized

where it should be.

But tonight at least here on this page,

my words are finally allowed

to mean exactly what I say.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

To be honest somewhere,

even if it’s only with myself.