Unpacking the Silence

There’s a quiet place I go when the world is too loud.
Where shame can’t echo and regret loses its teeth.

In that space, I find the version of me that still believes—
The one before the bruises, the broken promises, the masks I learned to wear.

We sit together.
Just us.
No noise. No pretending.

She asks why I hid her away.
I tell her the truth:
I thought becoming hard would keep me safe.
I thought silence was strength.
I thought scars made me unworthy of softness.

But here’s the thing about silence—it keeps you company, but it doesn’t keep you warm.

So I breathe.
I open the suitcase I’ve kept locked.
Out spill the callous words I spoke to myself,
The hollow apologies,
The seeds of doubt I watered faithfully,
And the sinister belief that I had to earn my worth.

I gather them up—not to throw them away, but to look them in the eye.
Because healing isn’t always about forgetting.
Sometimes it’s about remembering without crumbling.

In that quiet place, I learn grace again.
Grace for who I was, who I am, and who I’m still becoming.

And when I leave, I carry something lighter than silence:
Peace.