In another lifetime, I sit across from the girl I used to be. She's small in her chair. Too quiet. Too careful. Already tired of carrying emotions that were never hers to manage. She learned early that love was something you maintained. That staying agreeable kept the peace. That swallowing her feelings made rooms calmer. That apologising-even when she was innocent-was safer than being seen. Pleasing became protection. Silence became survival. And somewhere along the way, being "easy to love" replaced being herself. She believed if she stayed useful, gentle, unproblematic-someone would finally choose her. No one told her that real love doesn't require disappearing. That safety shouldn't cost your voice. That affection isn't a reward for endurance. When I reach her, she looks up and asks, "What did I do wrong now?" And my chest breaks as I answer, "You didn't fail. You adapted. You were a child learning how to survive love that didn't know how to hold you." I pull her close-the version of me who always waited to be picked- and whisper, "You don't have to earn rest anymore. You don't have to shrink to stay. You don't have to perform for love." Maybe healing begins right there. Not when you become softer. But when you finally stop becoming what hurt you needed-and start becoming who you needed all along.