Sometimes memories rise up without warning.
A scene in a movie… a familiar silence… a moment where a
woman speaks, but her voice isn’t heard. And suddenly I’m taken back to the
times when I lived inside that silence myself—when I wasn’t listened to, when
the blame fell on me without a word spoken, when my feelings were invisible.
Now they teach me.
They remind me why choosing separation was an act of self-respect, not loss. A moment of reclaiming my voice after years of being silenced. A step toward a life where I no longer have to shrink myself to keep the peace, or carry the weight of someone else’s unhappiness.
Today, when those old memories surface, I no longer feel trapped.
I feel grateful.
Grateful that I walked away from a place where I wasn’t heard.
Grateful that I no longer have to tolerate the coldness of
being blamed for things that were never mine to carry.
Grateful that I am building a life where my feelings matter,
where my voice is allowed to exist, where calm is no longer something I have to
fight for.
This separation wasn’t the end of something good.
It was the beginning of something kinder.
A beginning where I finally choose myself
