The Quiet Survival

As a child, I lived in the quiet spaces

between being seen and being forgotten.

Love, in my home,

felt like something distant—

a language, I was never taught to speak.

My father dreamed of a son,

not a daughter shaped like me,

and my mother— tired, worn, and heavy with life—

carried storms, she could not put down.

She once dreamed, of a home filled with laughter,

but what she held instead, was a life of sharp edges

and unspoken wounds.

I was born into the shadow of that grief,

into arms that never quite opened.

Each day, I learned the weight of being unwanted—

in the silences,

in the curses whispered

like truths I was meant to believe.

I wondered, why didn’t they play with me?

Why didn’t they hold me

like I had seen others held?

Why did love

skip past me

as if I were invisible?

They expected strength before I learned softness,

Confidence, before I knew comfort.

So I grew up believing I was not enough—

not enough to be chosen, not enough to be loved.

And so, I built another world.

In daydreams, they smiled at me.

They called my name with warmth,

held my hands, brushed my hair

with a tenderness I had never known.

There, I was wanted.

When real arms never reached for me,

I found refuge in quiet things—

toys that never turned away,

a pillow that became my brother,

soft and constant, tucking me into dreams

where I was safe.

I often wondered— what lesson was this life

trying to teach me?

Was I misplaced?

A wrong story in the wrong home?

To them, I was a burden.

To myself, I was a question

waiting for an answer.

Look at me, I wanted to say— just once,

with softness in your eyes.

I, too, longed to be held without condition,

to be loved without performance.

I was tired of pretending strength,

of carrying a boldness that never belonged to me.

All I ever wanted was gentleness.

To be treated like other children—

with kindness,

with patience,

with love

that didn’t need to be earned.

Did their eyes ever light up when they saw me?

Did my first steps matter to them, 

the way they mattered to me?

My victories fell quietly at their feet, unnoticed.

My failures echoed loudly instead.

I learned, that effort did not guarantee love,

and excellence, did not guarantee pride.

When I fell, no hands lifted me.

When I cried, no voice soothed me.

Even the storms outside my window felt kinder—

at least the thunder acknowledged my fear.

And so, I made peace with the rain.

It wept the tears I could not show,

carried the heaviness I could not name.

In summers that felt like cages,

I found escape between pages—

books became my world, my refuge, my quiet salvation.

Stories held me, when no one else did.

Still, I tried—

again and again—

to make them proud,

to become worthy of a love that never arrived.

But some distances cannot be crossed,

no matter how far a child is willing to go.

And now, I am learning

what took years to understand—

that their inability to love me was never a measure of my worth.

I was never the absence.

I was never the lack.

I was simply a child

who needed love—

 and learned, slowly, painfully,

how to give it to herself.