It feels almost humiliating when something inside me breaks open and rushes through my chest, spilling out before I can hold it back.
In those moments, I feel small. Not just small, but weightless, like I could disappear and the world would keep moving without noticing.
I find myself wondering why I can’t have a space that feels fully mine. Why it seems easier for things/objects, clutter, silence, distance to be tended to, while my presence feels like something that can be set aside.
I don’t fully understand it. Only that it hurts. It hurts when my needs are reduced, softened, made to feel less urgent, as though they matter less than the things that fill a room.
Growing up in a space where things overtook everything leaves its own quiet imprint. When objects gather and breathe louder than people do, you learn to shrink without realizing you’re doing it. You learn that space is fragile, that it can be taken over, that even your own corners might not stay yours.
And still, I want to outgrow this feeling. But the child inside me, soft, startled, shaped by too much and not enough... Flinches when the world presses too close into what little space she believes she has.
