If someone ever saw me the way I see others, I think I’d freeze. Not because I don’t want to be seen, but because the ache of invisibility has lived in me for so long that I’ve grown used to dressing it in grace.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve given so much of my light that people forget I was ever made of shadows, too – that I’ve walked through nights no one noticed, carried loads that bent me, but never broke me.
I’ve been the well for so many. Drawn dry, then left behind. And still – I gave. Willingly. Lovingly. Even when no one stayed to fill me back up.
So if someone ever saw me … truly saw me – I don’t know what I’d do. I think I’d shrink first, not because I’m small, but because I’ve learned to live in spaces where depth scares people off. And I’ve learned that when you’re the one who sees, you’re often the one who’s not seen.
But oh, if someone ever did see me – not just the strong parts, the deep parts, but the tired parts, the scared parts, the parts I protect with silence – and they stayed … not to fix, not to feed off of me, but just to be with me … I think I’d cry. The kind of cry that comes not from pain, but from the surprise of relief.
Because all I’ve ever wanted was a place to rest. To let my heart unclench. To be a well that’s filled, and not just emptied.
And I don’t know if that kind of love exists in the way I give it – but if it does … I hope it finds me before I convince myself I never needed it to begin with.
My Voice Unchained 