I learned early
to sit very still,
to read rooms
before I could read books.
To feel the weather
in a sigh.
To hear the break
before the glass fell.

I was small,
but I carried buckets
for storms that weren’t mine.
I held them quietly.
I always held them.

I learned that love
meant leaning in.
That safety lived
in being useful.
That if I listened hard enough
no one would leave.

So I became
the soft place.
The pause.
The yes.

I swallowed my questions
so yours could breathe.
I folded my needs
into the corners of conversations.
I nodded.
I soothed.
I stayed.

I’ll listen.
I always do.
I always have.

—

I grew up,
but the role stayed small.

Friendships found me
already seated.
Already open.
Already holding space
like a second skin.

They came full.
I made room.
They emptied.
I stayed quiet.

I became fluent
in other people’s storms
and illiterate
in my own.

I didn’t know
how to interrupt
with my truth.
I didn’t know
how to ask
without apologising.

I mistook endurance
for connection.
Presence
for reciprocity.

I’ll listen.
I always do.
I always have.

—

But listen—

There is a child in me
who was never asking
to be strong.
Only safe.

She didn’t want
to hold the world.
She wanted
to be held
inside it.

So now
I sit beside her.
Not ahead.
Not above.

I tell her:
You don’t have to earn closeness.
You don’t have to disappear
to be loved.
Your voice is not a burden.
Your silence is not a duty.

We are learning
to speak gently.
To leave pauses
unfinished.
To let others
carry their own weather.

I can listen.
And I can speak.
Both can be true.

—

I am still kind.
Still tender.
Still deeply human.

But I am no longer
the place where everyone rests
and no one stays.

I am learning
to be heard.

—Frost ❄️