WritewithMaee

soft soul 🌸

[writewithmaee]

The Ghost Holding It All Together

It’s a weird thing — to be at the center of everything, yet feel like you’re not really there.

I was the glue.

The go-between.

The built-in babysitter, translator, scheduler, emotional buffer, and crisis diffuser.

I held the family up like scaffolding.

But no one ever asked if I wanted to be the structure.

They only noticed me when something went wrong.

When someone needed a ride.

When someone forgot their homework.

When someone else broke down and I had to be the one who didn’t.

But ask me what I liked… what I dreamed of… what I was struggling with?

Silence.

It’s like I was too useful to be noticed.

Because in this family, being visible means needing something. And I learned early on: eldest daughters don’t get to need.

I watched my younger siblings get celebrated for small things — first steps, first awards, first heartbreaks.

Me? I was expected to know better, do more, feel less.

If I expressed pain, I was dramatic.

If I asked for help, I was “making things about me.”

So I stopped asking. I stopped sharing.

And slowly, I just… disappeared.

Still in the photos. Still in the group chats. But emotionally? I was furniture. Functional. Quiet. Background.

And yet, they’d say I was the “pillar” of the family.

But here’s the thing:

Even pillars crack. Even foundations get tired.

I wasn’t trying to be invisible.

I just got tired of showing up in a space that only saw me when I was convenient.

So now, I’m reclaiming visibility.

Not through what I do for others — but who I am without the role.

I’m making room for myself in my own life.

Because I’m not just the mediator, the helper, the go-to — I’m a person.

I’m the center, yes — but not the family’s tool. I’m the heart they forgot was still beating.

If you’ve ever felt invisible while holding everything together:

You’re not alone.

You’re not wrong for wanting to be seen.

And I promise — there’s nothing selfish about finally choosing yourself.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

Zen, But Also Kinda Done With Everyone’s BS

Let’s get this straight:

Just because I’m healing doesn’t mean I turned into a walking incense stick who forgives instantly and floats through life whispering affirmations.

No, I’m healing — but I’m also still real.

Still human.

Still deeply capable of getting pissed off while being at peace.

Because guess what?

Peace and anger can co-exist.

You can be working on your emotional regulation and still feel like flipping a table when someone tests your boundaries.

You can meditate in the morning and still block someone by lunch.

That doesn’t make you fake.

That makes you honest.

Some people mistake peace for passivity — like being calm means you’re suddenly okay with being mistreated, talked over, or disrespected.

Absolutely not.

I didn’t do all this healing just to become easier to ignore.

I’ve learned that part of growing is honoring both sides of you:

The soft one that wants to let go…

And the fierce one that remembers everything you had to survive.

Being peaceful doesn’t mean you don’t get angry.

It just means you’ve learned when to respond instead of explode.

It means your fire is directed now — not random.

You know what’s worth your energy, and what just isn’t.

So yes, I’m at peace. But don’t mistake that for weakness.

Because I’m also done shrinking myself to keep the room calm.

Done explaining my reactions to people who never considered my triggers.

Done pretending that “good vibes only” is real life. It’s not.

You’re allowed to be chill and unbothered.

You’re also allowed to have boundaries and a backbone.

You can be in your healing era and still clap back if needed — with grace, of course.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Being healed doesn’t mean you don’t have triggers — it means you know how to walk away before setting the place on fire.

[writewithmaee]

It’s Not Always Aesthetic, But It’s Always Real

Let’s be honest—love doesn’t always look good in pictures.

There are mornings when our hair’s a mess, the kitchen’s a disaster, and we’re still arguing about who left the fan on all night. There are days when we cancel plans, not because we’re busy, but because we’re just tired—mentally, emotionally, or both. And no, we don’t always match our outfits or take cute selfies at golden hour. Sometimes, love looks like silence and space and “Are you okay?” followed by, “I’m just overwhelmed.”

And still, I love us most in those moments.

The world makes it seem like love is about grand gestures, perfect vacations, and perfectly edited lives. But what they don’t post is the patience it takes. The forgiveness. The long talks at 1 AM, when everything feels a little too heavy. The way we keep choosing each other—even when we’re both a little difficult to love.

Because real love isn’t always aesthetic. It’s not always shareable. But it’s beautiful in its own way.

It’s him bringing me snacks after a bad day. Me saving the last bite of something because I know it’s his favorite. It’s mismatched schedules but synchronized hearts. It’s eye rolls followed by soft smiles. It’s messy, raw, ordinary—and sacred.

And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything filtered or picture-perfect. Because this? The imperfect, everyday kind of love? This is what love actually looks like. And I am so, so lucky to call it mine.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

The Doctor’s Office Became My Battlefield

“You’re strong,” they say. But I’m tired of being brave in waiting rooms.”

I lost count of how many times I sat in that stiff, cold chair.

You know the one—the vinyl seat across from a wall of outdated posters about reproductive health. The kind of room that smells faintly of antiseptic and worn-out hope. I sat there with a clipboard on my lap, writing my name, birthday, and cycle dates like I was filling out a loyalty card at a coffee shop.

Except this wasn’t coffee.

This was my body.

My womb.

My future.

And every appointment chipped a little more away from the person I used to be.

The ultrasounds were the worst. Not because of the discomfort—but because of the silence. The tech would press that cold wand against my lower belly or insert the transducer while staring at the screen, not me. Her face never moved. Her eyes squinted at measurements. She’d click. Pause. Click again.

“Hold your breath.”

I already was.

Sometimes I wanted to scream: Say something. Anything. Tell me it’s shrinking. Tell me it’s healing. Tell me I still have time.

But the answers always came later—across from a doctor who’d scroll through my chart, speaking in clinical tones, using words like “mass,” “enlargement,” “inhibits implantation,” “recurrence.”

To them, I was a patient. A folder. A barcode.

But to me, I was a woman trying to hold onto a dream.

The medications came next. Pills with side effects that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin. Hormone treatments that messed with my cycle, my moods, and my peace. There were days I couldn’t remember who I was without pain or pills.

I started scheduling my life around appointments and recovery time. My calendar wasn’t filled with dates or events—it was a map of procedures, follow-ups, prescriptions. There were no baby showers or milestones, just moments marked by blood tests and “come back in six weeks.”

Friends would say things like, “At least you’re doing something. You’re being proactive.”

But they didn’t see me crying in the parking lot after yet another ultrasound showed no change.

They didn’t see me sit in a bench wondering how much longer I could keep doing this.

The waiting rooms became my war zone. I wore armor made of polite smiles and polite nods. But inside, I was wounded. Lonely. Drained.

It’s hard to explain that kind of loneliness. It's not the kind that comes from being alone in a room—it’s the kind that comes from being misunderstood in your most vulnerable moment. From hearing things like, “At least it’s not cancer,” or “Why not just adopt?” as if my grief could be fixed like a flat tire.

But I kept going. Appointment after appointment. I kept showing up.

Because maybe, deep down, I believed that someone had to fight for my womb, for my dream, for the child I hadn’t met but already loved.

And that someone had to be me.

I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel strong. But I was both—because I kept walking into those rooms, even when I wanted to run.

This is what they don’t tell you about infertility—it’s not just the physical battle. It’s the emotional endurance. The loneliness of navigating a system that treats your womb but often forgets your heart.

But I see you, sister. In that paper gown. Holding back tears in front of strangers.

You’re not a case.

You’re not a number.

You’re a woman in a fight for something sacred.

And every time you show up—you’re winning, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

When My Body Betrayed Me

“There’s something wrong with me.”

I didn’t want to believe it at first.

For months—maybe even years—I ignored the signs. The painful periods. The bloating that made me feel like I was always five months pregnant. The dull ache in my lower back. I convinced myself it was just stress. Hormones. Normal. Something every woman goes through.

But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t until I sat in a sterile clinic room, wearing a paper gown and staring at the ceiling to avoid the ultrasound screen, that I heard the words that changed everything.

“You have an intramural uterine fibroid.”

I nodded as if I understood. As if I could grasp what those four words really meant for my future. But inside, my world cracked. It wasn’t just a medical term. It was a threat to my dream of becoming a mother.

I didn’t even know what an “intramural” fibroid was. All I knew was that it was in my uterus, in the wall, and in the way.

The doctor’s voice blurred into a fog. I heard fragments—“noncancerous,” “common in women,” “can interfere with fertility,” “surgery if it grows”—but my heart had already stopped at infertility.

That night, I cried in the shower until the water ran cold. I pressed my hand against my belly, whispering questions into the silence:

Why me?

Why my womb?

Why now?

For days, I walked around in a daze. Smiling at work. Nodding in conversations. But inside, I was unraveling. Every baby in a grocery store, every pregnant woman on my feed felt like a dagger in my heart. Not because I wasn’t happy for them. But because I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one of them.

I felt broken. Less of a woman. Defective.

And no one knew except for husband of course.

You don’t wear infertility on your sleeve. You carry it in your silence. In your prayers. In your Google searches at 2 a.m. You carry it when people ask casually, “When are you having kids?” You carry it when you say, “Someday,” and smile, even though you're bleeding inside.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand, even in the early days of this journey:

Broken doesn’t mean finished.

Defective doesn’t mean worthless.

And a womb with scars is still a womb full of hope.

The fear is real. So is the confusion, the grief, the denial. But so is the strength. It may be quiet at first. It may look like simply getting out of bed or making the next appointment. But it grows.

I didn’t choose this diagnosis. But I can choose what I do with it.

And maybe, just maybe, this is where my story begins—not with a baby in my arms, but with a truth in my heart:

There is still hope.

Even here.

Even now.

Even with fibroids.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

When My Body Betrayed Me

“There’s something wrong with me.”

I didn’t want to believe it at first.

For months—maybe even years—I ignored the signs. The painful periods. The bloating that made me feel like I was always five months pregnant. The dull ache in my lower back. I convinced myself it was just stress. Hormones. Normal. Something every woman goes through.

But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t until I sat in a sterile clinic room, wearing a paper gown and staring at the ceiling to avoid the ultrasound screen, that I heard the words that changed everything.

“You have an intramural uterine fibroid.”

I nodded as if I understood. As if I could grasp what those four words really meant for my future. But inside, my world cracked. It wasn’t just a medical term. It was a threat to my dream of becoming a mother.

I didn’t even know what an “intramural” fibroid was. All I knew was that it was in my uterus, in the wall, and in the way.

The doctor’s voice blurred into a fog. I heard fragments—“noncancerous,” “common in women,” “can interfere with fertility,” “surgery if it grows”—but my heart had already stopped at infertility.

That night, I cried in the shower until the water ran cold. I pressed my hand against my belly, whispering questions into the silence:

Why me?

Why my womb?

Why now?

For days, I walked around in a daze. Smiling at work. Nodding in conversations. But inside, I was unraveling. Every baby in a grocery store, every pregnant woman on my feed felt like a dagger in my heart. Not because I wasn’t happy for them. But because I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one of them.

I felt broken. Less of a woman. Defective.

And no one knew except for husband of course.

You don’t wear infertility on your sleeve. You carry it in your silence. In your prayers. In your Google searches at 2 a.m. You carry it when people ask casually, “When are you having kids?” You carry it when you say, “Someday,” and smile, even though you're bleeding inside.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand, even in the early days of this journey:

Broken doesn’t mean finished.

Defective doesn’t mean worthless.

And a womb with scars is still a womb full of hope.

The fear is real. So is the confusion, the grief, the denial. But so is the strength. It may be quiet at first. It may look like simply getting out of bed or making the next appointment. But it grows.

I didn’t choose this diagnosis. But I can choose what I do with it.

And maybe, just maybe, this is where my story begins—not with a baby in my arms, but with a truth in my heart:

There is still hope.

Even here.

Even now.

Even with fibroids.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

Sadness Wasn’t in My Job Description

I didn’t know I was depressed.

I thought I was just “lazy.”

“Ungrateful.”

“Tired.”

But not tired like “I didn’t sleep well.”

Tired like… I’ve been carrying too much for too long and no one noticed.

Because when you’re the eldest daughter, no one checks on you — they just expect you to check on everyone else.

I was the one who made sure the lights stayed on.

The one who cleaned up the mess — literal and emotional.

The one who made the sacrifices without being asked because I already knew what was needed.

So when I started slipping, nobody saw it.

Because I was too “put together” to be falling apart.

The scary thing about being seen as the strong one is this:

People don’t ask if you’re okay — they assume you are.

Because you’ve always managed. You’ve always smiled. You’ve always shown up.

But inside?

I was drowning in silence.

I was screaming in ways nobody heard because I was still functioning.

Still showing up.

Still being “responsible.”

No one expects the eldest to break down.

And when she does?

It’s uncomfortable.

It disrupts the system she was holding up all along.

I remember once saying, “I think something’s wrong. I’m just… really sad, and I don’t know why.”

And the answer?

“But you’re doing great. You’re doing everything right.”

Exactly. That was the problem.

I was doing everything right, and still falling apart.

Turns out, being responsible doesn’t exempt you from pain.

It just makes people overlook it.

So now I’m giving myself permission:

To not be okay.

To fall apart sometimes.

To rest, cry, scream, feel, without labeling it weakness.

Because responsibility without rest isn’t strength — it’s slow self-destruction.

I’m still the strong one.

But now, I’m also the honest one.

The healing one.

The one who knows that being whole matters more than being “in control.”

And if no one ever told you — let me be the first:

You can be tired.

You can be sad.

You can be held, too.

You deserve that just as much as you’ve given it.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

We Were Close, But That Doesn’t Mean We Still Belong

Some people come into your life like fire — loud, wild, unforgettable.

You laugh with them until your stomach hurts. You cry with them. You swear you'll never drift. Never lose touch. You plan birthdays, dream futures, and say things like “forever.”

Then, slowly… life happens.

Schedules misalign. Conversations thin out. Replies get shorter. You don’t fight — you just fade. And one day, you realize you’ve gone weeks, months, maybe even years… without them.

And it stings.

So here’s what I had to learn (and unlearn):

Growing apart doesn’t erase the closeness that once was.

It just means your paths needed different terrain.

Sometimes, we outgrow people who once fit perfectly in our lives. Not because anyone did something wrong — but because we’re no longer the same. And that’s okay.

You don’t have to hate someone to let them go.

You don’t need a dramatic ending to close a chapter.

Sometimes the most honest goodbye is the one you whisper silently as you keep walking forward.

I used to think distance meant failure.

That the end of a friendship or connection was a sign I messed up. But now I see it differently: some people were never meant to walk with you forever — just far enough to help you become who you needed to be.

Love doesn’t always end with bitterness.

Sometimes, it ends with quiet gratitude.

“I’m thankful you were there when you were.”

That’s enough.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Not all goodbyes are loud. Some are just the sound of two people growing.

[writewithmaee]

[writewithmaee]

When the Vibe Was Right and the Universe Said Yes

I didn’t expect anything, really. I wasn’t looking for fireworks or fairy tale moments. I was just existing—trying to heal, trying to grow, scrolling through life, learning to love my own company. And then… there you were.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic. It was quiet. Subtle. Safe. But something in the air shifted when you spoke to me. Like the moment in a movie when the music softens, and everything feels just a little more in focus. The vibe? It was undeniable. No games. No guessing. Just a rhythm I didn’t even realize my heart was waiting to match.

You didn’t have to try hard. You just showed up as you, and somehow, that was exactly what I needed.

It was the way your laugh matched mine without trying. The way you listened like every word I said mattered. The way your presence felt more like peace than pressure. You made love feel easy—even in the early stages, when it’s supposed to be awkward and confusing. Ours? It just made sense.

Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just chemistry—it was alignment. We weren’t rushing. We weren’t forcing. The vibe was right because the timing, the connection, the hearts—they all lined up. It felt like the universe whispered, “Finally.”

When the vibe is right, love doesn’t need to prove itself. It just is. And from that first moment, we were already becoming something beautiful.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[writewithmaee]

Healing Is a Messy Group Chat with All the Versions of You

Healing sounds beautiful in theory.

You picture yoga mats, tea, affirmations, soft lighting, and crying in a cute way on your bedroom floor.

But in real life? Healing looks like skipping therapy one week and re-downloading the same toxic app the next.

It’s journaling your growth at 9 a.m. and texting your ex at 11 p.m.

It’s peace on Monday and spiraling by Friday.

It’s… messy. Loud. Embarrassing. Holy. Human.

Because healing isn’t linear — it’s a chaotic group chat with every version of you who’s ever been hurt, abandoned, ignored, or told to “get over it.”

And let me tell you, that group chat?

It’s got some characters.

There’s your inner child, still waiting for someone to pick them first.

There’s teenage you, angry, misunderstood, acting like she didn’t care but cared way too much.

There’s the version of you who let people stay too long just to feel something.

And then there’s you now — trying to hold space for all of them while trying not to fall apart.

Healing is letting them speak.

It’s letting your inner child cry without shaming them.

It’s letting past you grieve without rushing her.

It’s choosing to be the safe place you never had, without needing to perform perfection for the world watching.

And the more you listen, the less chaotic it gets.

You stop muting the group chat.

You learn to respond, not react.

You learn to say, “Hey, I see you. I’ve got us now.”

So no — healing doesn’t come with closure emails or sparkly turning points.

It’s slow. Awkward. Relapsing into old habits and forgiving yourself anyway.

But every time you choose grace over guilt, softness over shame — you’re healing.

One messy message at a time.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Healing isn’t becoming a new person. It’s remembering who you were before the world got to you — and choosing her again.

[writewithmaee]

[writewithmaee]

This is a Boundary, Not an Attitude

There was a time I thought being available 24/7 made me a good person.

Reply fast. Listen longer. Carry their drama like it was part of my job description. Give until I was empty — then still offer more, because that’s what “good friends,” “good daughters,” “good people” do… right?

Wrong.

I wasn’t being loving — I was being used.

I wasn’t being loyal — I was being emotionally mugged.

And the worst part? I let it happen because I didn’t know that boundaries weren’t walls — they were self-respect in action.

Emotional boundaries are the invisible fences that protect your peace, your energy, and your sanity from being drained by people who don’t refill — only take. You know the ones:

The friend who turns every conversation into a sob story… about them.

The partner who guilt-trips your “me time.”

The family member who thinks love = control.

These are energy vampires. And no, it’s not cute.

Their love language is emotional overload, and their superpower is turning your empathy into exhaustion.

So I started saying things like:

“I can’t take that on right now.”

“I love you, but I need space.”

“I’m not available for that kind of conversation today.”

And guess what? The right people respected it. The wrong ones got mad — and exposed themselves in the process.

Let them.

Because protecting your peace isn’t selfish. It’s sacred.

Your energy is currency — stop making emotional charity donations to people who don’t invest back.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Boundaries aren’t mean. Draining people and calling it love is.

[writewithmaee]

Raised, But Not Really a Child

I wasn’t raised — I was recruited.

Before I even knew how to spell responsibility, I was already carrying it. I wasn’t the eldest daughter — I was the backup parent. The emergency contact. The one who knew the feeding schedule, the school forms, the grocery list, and exactly what silence meant at the dinner table.

I didn’t grow up with protection — I was the protection.

At an age where I should’ve been worrying about glitter pens and sleepovers, I was calming down tantrums, shielding siblings from shouting matches, and trying to decode my parents' stress like it was a second language.

They didn’t ask.

They didn’t have to.

The moment I said, “Don’t worry, I got it,” they let me.

I was praised for being “so helpful.”

But help became habit.

And habit became identity.

And now I’m here, years later, still trying to remember who I was before I was everybody’s safety net.

Truth is — I didn’t get to be the daughter.

I was too busy being the fixer, the soother, the in-house therapist.

I was emotional glue holding together people who should’ve been holding me.

And maybe the hardest part to admit?

Sometimes I resent it.

Not out of hate. But out of hunger — for the childhood I never really got to live.

I’m not ungrateful.

I’m just tired of pretending it didn’t cost me anything.

But I’m healing. Slowly. Messily. And sometimes with snacks and ugly crying.

Because for the first time, I’m learning that I don’t need to be in charge to be valuable.

That my worth doesn’t come from what I do for others.

That being protected isn’t weakness — it’s deserved.

So no, I wasn’t raised like other kids.

But now? I’m raising myself with softness, honesty, and the kind of love I used to only give away.

[writewithmaee]

I’m “Too Much,” Go Find Less

I’ve been called “too much” more times than I can count.

Too loud.

Too emotional.

Too deep.

Too sensitive.

Too ambitious.

Too honest.

At one point, I believed them. I started shrinking. Toning it down. Watering myself into something digestible — like being palatable was the price I had to pay to be loved.

But here’s the truth: I was never too much. They were just not enough to hold someone like me.

There are people who will misunderstand your fire because they only know how to hold smoke. They’ll label your boldness as arrogance, your softness as weakness, your standards as attitude, and your voice as noise. That’s not a “you” problem — that’s a capacity problem on their end.

Let me be real: if I’m “too much” for you, that just means I’m not your person. I wasn’t made to be tolerated — I was made to be felt, remembered, and respected.

I don’t dim anymore. I don’t shrink to fit.

I am full-volume, full-hearted, fully awake to who I am.

And if that threatens someone? Good.

They were never going to clap when I bloomed anyway.

You are not a burden just because your light is bright.

You are not a problem just because your truth is loud.

And you don’t need to become “less” to make anyone stay.

Let them go.

Let them call you too much.

And then go be everything they couldn’t handle — and more.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You were never too much. They were just too small to hold all of you.

[writewithmaee]

Built Different, or Just Built Tired?

They say the eldest daughter is the strong one.

She’s the reliable one. The one who “understands.” The one who “knows better.” The one who’s got it all figured out while silently unraveling behind a closed bedroom door, trying not to cry too loud because the younger ones might hear.

Let me say this loud for the eldest daughters in the back: We are not naturally strong. We were just never given the option to be weak.

While the rest of the siblings were still being kids, we were out here calculating grocery budgets, adjusting to our parents' mood swings, and prepping the emotional climate of the household like unpaid meteorologists. By the time we hit 10, we were already tiny crisis managers with a bedtime.

We didn’t “mature early.” We were drafted into emotional labor and called it a personality.

It’s wild how “responsible” is just trauma with a better PR team.

And the worst part? They called it a compliment.

“You’re so strong.”

“You’re so mature for your age.”

“Your siblings are lucky to have you.”

No.

We survived what we were never supposed to carry — and that’s not lucky, that’s tragic.

And still, we show up. We stay. We give. We handle it. We figure it out. That’s what we do.

But here’s the plot twist:

Just because I can carry it, doesn’t mean I should.

Just because I’m the eldest, doesn’t mean I owe everyone my peace.

Just because I was “built strong” doesn’t mean I wasn’t also breaking quietly.

Now?

Now, I’m learning to put things down.

To unlearn the lie that my worth is tied to how well I hold everyone else up.

To allow softness without apology.

To rest without guilt.

To laugh, cry, rage, heal — all at the same time.

Yes, I’m the eldest daughter.

Yes, I’m strong.

But I’m also tired, human, healing, hilarious — and finally, mine.

[sathisvati]

You don't know what's gonna happen, you know what happened in your past. But be present, be here, where you can influence, what's gonna last.