She had always been like this—feeling things more than necessary, or at least more than what the world considered necessary. From a young age, she sensed emotions before they were spoken. A slight change in tone, a pause that lasted a second too long, a smile that didn't reach the eyes—these things never escaped her. While others lived comfortably on the surface, she lived underneath, where feelings settled and stayed.
People often described her as kind. Some said she was too kind. She smiled easily, listened patiently, and rarely said no. It wasn't because she didn't have her own opinions or needs. It was because she didn't want to be the reason someone else felt uncomfortable. She learned early that being "good" meant adjusting, staying quiet, understanding others even when no one tried to understand her.
At home, at school, everywhere—she was the one who didn't complain. The one who said, "It's okay," even when it wasn't. Slowly, unknowingly, she trained herself to swallow her feelings. She believed that if she stayed silent long enough, the heaviness would disappear. It didn't. It only grew deeper.
There were days when she woke up with a tightness in her chest she couldn't explain. Nothing had gone wrong. No one had hurt her. And yet, something felt heavy. She told herself she was being dramatic. Sensitive. Weak. She compared herself to people who seemed stronger, louder, unaffected. She wondered why she couldn't be like them.
But what she didn't see was this: feeling deeply is not a flaw—it is a burden only when the world doesn't know how to hold it.
She cared about people instinctively. Their problems became her problems. Their sadness stayed with her long after conversations ended. If someone around her was unhappy, she felt responsible, even when it had nothing to do with her. This made her tired in a way sleep could not fix.
At night, when the world went quiet, her mind grew loud. Thoughts lined up one after another, replaying moments from the day. Did I say the wrong thing? Did I hurt them? Why did they sound distant? She analyzed herself endlessly, searching for mistakes that might not even exist.
She rarely allowed herself to be angry. Anger felt dangerous. It felt like something that could push people away. So she turned it inward, blaming herself instead. Sadness felt safer. Guilt felt familiar.
There were moments she wanted to scream, to tell someone that she was tired of always being the strong one, the understanding one. But when she opened her mouth, the words never came out. She feared being misunderstood more than being silent.
People praised her patience. They didn't see how much it cost her.
She wasn't pretending to be happy; she was trying to survive in the only way she knew. By being agreeable. By being gentle. By being invisible when necessary.
Sometimes, she wondered what it would be like to take up space—to speak without rehearsing every word in her head first, to express hurt without apologizing for it. The idea felt both freeing and terrifying. What if people left? What if they thought she had changed?
So she stayed the same. Or at least, she tried to.
But even the kindest hearts reach a limit.
There were moments—small, quiet moments—when she felt unseen. When she gave and gave, and no one noticed. When she supported others through their worst days, but when she struggled, there was no one asking if she was okay.
Those moments didn't break her immediately. They accumulated. Like water dripping slowly into a container, filling it drop by drop.
She told herself she didn't need anything from anyone. That independence meant not relying on others emotionally. But deep down, she wanted what everyone wants—to be understood without having to explain, to be chosen without having to beg, to be cared for without conditions.
Her flaw wasn't loving too much.
Her flaw was forgetting herself while loving others.
There was a part of her that felt guilty for even thinking this way. She had food, education, opportunities. Who was she to feel tired? Who was she to feel empty?
So she minimized her pain. Compared it to others'. Dismissed it. Until one day, she couldn't ignore it anymore.
It came quietly—not as a dramatic breakdown, but as a deep, steady exhaustion. She woke up one morning and felt emotionally drained before the day had even begun. Smiling felt heavy. Talking felt like effort. Caring felt painful.
That scared her.
She had always believed her kindness was endless. Now she realized it wasn't. And that realization felt like failure.
But in truth, it was the beginning of awareness.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think: What if I matter too?
The thought felt strange, almost selfish. But it stayed.
She didn't change overnight. She didn't suddenly become confident or fearless. She still felt deeply. Still overthought. Still cared.
But something shifted inside her.
She started noticing how often she ignored her own discomfort to keep others happy. How often she said yes when she wanted to say no. How often she apologized for existing.
And slowly, very slowly, she began to question it.
Maybe her heart wasn't too much.
Maybe the world just wasn't gentle enough.
This chapter of her life didn't end with clarity or answers. It ended with a question—a quiet, powerful one that lingered in her chest:
What would happen if I learned to care for myself the way I care for others?
She didn't know the answer yet.
But this was where her becoming began.
Continue "Chapter 2" 💗