The Girl I Grew Out Of

I used to belong

to a version of myself

who whispered

instead of speaking,

who folded her feelings

like laundry and hid them

in the back drawer

so no one could call them

“too much.”

She was polite

the way silence

is soft, agreeable,

invisible at the edges.

She learned early

how to shrink,

how to turn

her warmth into apology,

how to carry

other people’s comfort

like a duty stitched

onto her back.

She kept journals like confessionals,

writing truths she could never say

in daylight rooms or classrooms

where cruelty wore jokes.

I didn’t abandon her.

I outgrew her.

She kept the peace,

but I became the woman

who names the wound out loud.

She worried about being liked.

I worry about living honestly.

She let people shape her.

I shape myself.

And yet

I visit her sometimes.

I press my palm

to her shoulder

and tell her:

you were never weak.

You were gathering pieces I would need,

holding the door

until I walked through.

Now I stand in rooms

that once terrified her,

wearing the voice

she never used,

breathing the air

she never claimed,

lifting the weight

she carried for years.

I am not ashamed.

I am built from her.

Every step forward

is a thank you

to the girl I was,

the girl I survived,

the girl I outgrew

so the woman could enter.

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