I used to wrestle with not saying anything. I felt like silence made me look bitter. Like if I was really healed, I would sit down and “have the talk.” But sometimes silence is sacred. Sometimes no contact is the most honest form of love, for yourself. Sometimes not saying anything is your closure. I owe myself more than I owe them. I owe myself peace, not people-pleasing. I owe myself clarity, not confusion. I owe myself safety, not more trauma wrapped in guilt. I owe myself growth, not recycling pain with people who refuse to change.

But here’s the thing I want to be real about. I own my responsibility in this too. I should have cut them off long ago. I should have protected myself better. But I didn’t. Why? Because I lacked love for myself. Because my self-worth was so low, I thought I deserved the pain or that maybe, just maybe, they would change. It takes two to tango, and I sure did tango. I danced with that devil. I stayed in a toxic rhythm that only brought me harm.

For a long time now, I didn’t give a fuck. And I still don’t. I’m just finally putting it into words. I’ve always felt the weird energy. The side-eyes. The fake laughs. The shift in the room when I show up and don’t fold. I clock it all. And I used to try to understand it, to decode it, to make sense of why people act funny around me when I’ve done nothing but exist. The truth is, bitches are weird. And I get it, but at the same time, I really don’t.

I watched the women in my family center their entire lives around men, men who were emotionally unavailable, abusive, manipulative, or just not capable of loving them the way they deserved. I saw them give everything and still be left empty. I saw them abandon their own needs to try and hold a relationship together. And I decided that wouldn’t be me.