I was always the child who felt too much. A tender thing in a world that prized thick skin.
They called me too sensitive as if it were a flaw, but they didn’t see the weight I carried,
how every small hurt lodged itself in my chest like a splinter.
I couldn’t hide my pain — not where I felt safe.
But maybe that’s why my mother always said she’d never seen me truly happy.
And maybe she was right.
Because there was always something to cry about, always a reason to feel the ache.
Even as a little girl, I found ways to blame myself for things far beyond my control.
At seven, I believed every unkind word spoken around me was my fault.
At thirteen, I carried the silence of a broken home like a scar.
At seventeen, I thought I was responsible for the sadness I saw in others.
I grew up never feeling loved — not the kind that stays, not the kind that feels safe.
So I made a vow to myself.
When I had a home of my own, it would be different.
My home would be overflowing with love and laughter,
so much so that it would fill the walls and pour out into the world.
My children would never feel the need to hide their pain behind wide smiles in photographs.
They would never have to lock their doors.
Even my animals — my dogs, my cats, maybe even cows —
would rest easy, never knowing the sting of terror.
I became obsessed with love — not just the idea of it, but the act of it,
the need to feel it, the need to give it.
It became the air I breathed, the reason I woke up every day.
I anchored my life to it.
I told myself, if nothing else, I will live to love.
Without it, I didn’t know who I was.
But love, oh love, it came with people.
And I sought them,
Not for what they could give,
But for the chance to pour me into them,
To be the healer, the balm, the endless ocean.
“I’ll love you so much,” I promised,
“That you’ll forget heartbreak ever touched you.”
And then, there was him —
The first love, sweet as sunrise.
With him, the weight of life divided,
Became bearable.
His family folded me into their story;
His sister told me she couldn’t even remember his life before I was in it.
Even my dogs curled around him
As if he carried peace in his very skin.
This was not just love —
This was being in love.
And it was perfect.
Perfect, but fleeting.
We never fought, not even when it ended.
He left as gently as he came,
and though it broke my heart, I felt his love even in the goodbye.
From him, I learned what it meant to be considerate,
to think of someone else’s hunger before my own.
He taught me to be softer with myself,
to see my reflection and think, if someone as good as him could love me,
there must be something good in me to love.
I thought, If nothing else, at least I know what real love feels like.
But then came someone else, and with him,
a different kind of love — unexpected, messy, fleeting.
For a moment, he made everything feel okay again.
It showed in my work, in my smile, in the way I carried myself.
Even my mom noticed.
She said, “I’m glad I can finally see you happy.”
For the first time, I imagined a life where I didn’t die young,
where I didn’t die by my own hand.
I let myself dream of growing old, of a home filled with love,
of a family that felt whole.
But this love was different.
It brought out the worst in me.
In trying to protect myself from my own wounds,
I reopened his.
I hurt him in ways I can’t undo,
and in hurting him, I hurt myself.
He left. Again and again.
And each time, I begged him to stay.
Each time, I felt smaller,
until I barely recognized the girl who had once prided herself
on letting people go with grace.
I couldn’t let him go,
not after I’d already imagined a life with him in it.
Not after I’d built a home for us in my dreams.
And when he left for the last time,
everything else crumbled too.
I lost my dogs, our baby, my job, my friends.
And I lost him.
I’ve lived through horrors I’ll never speak of.
But this — this year —
it stripped me bare and left me hollow.
I lost faith in love, the one thing that had carried me through life.
Now, I float through the days, untethered and empty.
And yet, somewhere deep down,
there’s a quiet hope that whispers:
No pain will ever hurt more than this.
If I survive this,
if I claw my way back to the surface,
I will be unbreakable.
But God, it’s so hard to believe that right now.
