It always shocks me how differently the world sees me compared to my own family. Out there, people say I'm gentle, patient, warm. But at home? I'm the angry one. The moody one. The one who "overreacts," the one who's "too much." Funny how I can hold myself together so gracefully for strangers, yet the people who raised me witness the version of me that's tired, overwhelmed, and on edge. Maybe it's because I've been holding everything in for far too long. Maybe home is the only place where my cracks finally show. Maybe the chaos they see is just the exhaustion I never had the space to breathe through. Because sometimes the safest place is the place where you finally fall apart.