People admired how calm I was. How “chill,” how collected. How nothing seemed to shake me. They called it grace. I called it endurance. Because stillness, for me, was never about serenity. It was about survival. The Quiet I Was Trained to Keep From a young age, I learned that loudness had consequences. Voices raised in protest were

They say you’re easy to be around. Low-maintenance. Chill. Good vibes only. You smile at the compliment, but something deep inside you aches— because they don’t know that being palatable was never your truth. It was your armor. It was the price of being accepted. Of being liked. Of not being too much for them. And now, you wonder who you w

There are moments when you catch yourself in the mirror and feel like a guest in your own skin. Not because you’ve changed, but because you’ve never really arrived. Your body has always felt like a space that others enter— with opinions, expectations, and entitlement. A territory to be judged, touched, admired, corrected, but never truly ask

We were taught to smile before we were taught to speak. To suck in our stomachs before we could form full opinions. To be admired before we were ever truly felt. To pose before we were invited to arrive. We were raised to be beautiful. Not to be here. Not to be whole. Not to take up space in our wild, loud, unfiltered selves— but to decorate the

She learned early that being wanted was a kind of currency. Not the kind that buys belonging, but the kind that rents attention— temporary, conditional, performative. Before anyone asked about her favorite books, or what made her heart swell, or what she was afraid of when the lights went out, they had already decided they wanted her. Not for