I Don’t Explain Myself Anymore
There comes a point in your life when you stop explaining yourself.
Not slowly.
Not politely.
You just stop.
No one needs to know where you are.
Or if you’re happy.
Or sad.
Alone or with good company.
I used to think that the people who knew me — really knew me — would be happy if I was happy.
I was wrong.
And I learned it in ways I wasn’t expecting.
I’ve always been honest.
I talked about my plans.
My dreams.
Openly.
Like they were something good.
Something worth sharing.
To me, it was simple.
A dream.
Like wanting to fly a plane
without ever taking a class.
Just hope.
Just possibility.
But that’s not how it was received.
It wasn’t:
reach for the stars.
It was:
who is she to think she can?
That’s when I understood it.
Not in theory.
In real life.
Envy.
Jealousy.
I saw it clearly enough
to stop talking.
Plans?
I keep them to myself.
Trips?
The same.
And yes…
sometimes I lie.
Not because I’m fake.
Because I learned that not everyone can handle the truth of your life without turning it into something else.
That’s the price.
When people don’t celebrate you,
they watch you.
When they don’t understand you,
they question you.
When they can’t do what you’re doing,
they resent you.
So I closed down.
I turned around.
And I never went back.
Not to who I was.
Not to what they were to me.
I used to believe that the people who knew your struggles
would be the first to be happy for you.
They’re not.
Maybe they’re not brave enough.
Maybe they feel stuck.
Maybe it’s as simple as:
why her… and not me?
Instead of:
she deserves this.
So now…
I don’t explain myself.
When they ask if I’m okay…
I say yes.
Even when I’m not.
Even when I’m tired.
Even when I could use a hand to hold
or a shoulder to cry on.
I say I’m fine.
Not because I don’t feel.
But because I finally understand something I didn’t want to before:
Not everyone deserves access to your truth.
And I don’t owe explanations
to people who never knew what to do with me when I gave them one.
