Who are they
to make me feel this way?
Who signed the papers,
who stamped the permission slip
that said
yes, you may crash her spirit
until she forgets her name?
Who gave them the right
to sand me down
with opinions,
to call it “help,”
to rename my becoming
as failure?
They changed me.
They pressed and pulled and judged
until I bent in places
I didn’t even know could ache.
And now they stare, confused,
asking why I look different.
I was placed on this earth too.
Not as an accessory.
Not as a lesson.
Not as someone’s emotional labour.
I was placed here
to have a home and kids too,
to burn dinner and laugh about it,
to build dreams that scare me,
to grow old with stories
that don’t apologize for existing.
But selfish —
they held me hostage
against what works or doesn’t,
measured my worth
with earthly scales
that never knew how to weigh a soul.
They drove me
from sanity to insanity,
then asked why I’m tired.
But listen.
I am someone’s daughter.
I am someone’s friend.
I am a future mom
I am a person
who survived being misunderstood
and is still here
claiming space
with a trembling voice
that refuses to disappear.
And if that makes them uncomfortable—
good.
Because I am done shrinking
to make destruction feel justified.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 12:35 PM UTC
Who are they
to make me feel this way?
Who signed the papers,
who stamped the permission slip
that said
yes, you may crash her spirit
until she forgets her name?
Who gave them the right
to sand me down
with opinions,
to call it “help,”
to rename my becoming
as failure?
They changed me.
They pressed and pulled and judged
until I bent in places
I didn’t even know could ache.
And now they stare, confused,
asking why I look different.
I was placed on this earth too.
Not as an accessory.
Not as a lesson.
Not as someone’s emotional labour.
I was placed here
to have a home and kids too,
to burn dinner and laugh about it,
to build dreams that scare me,
to grow old with stories
that don’t apologize for existing.
But selfish —
they held me hostage
against what works or doesn’t,
measured my worth
with earthly scales
that never knew how to weigh a soul.
They drove me
from sanity to insanity,
then asked why I’m tired.
But listen.
I am someone’s daughter.
I am someone’s friend.
I am a future mom
I am a person
who survived being misunderstood
and is still here
claiming space
with a trembling voice
that refuses to disappear.
And if that makes them uncomfortable—
good.
Because I am done shrinking
to make destruction feel justified.