Her eyes didn’t just look at me, They accused me. Sharp, unblinking, like they were carrying my pain for me because I was too tired to hold it anymore. Her lips moved gently, almost lovingly, but the words were soaked in anger. “How could you forgive them?” She turned her head away, as if facing me meant facing everything I survived. Her voice dropped, quieter now, broken at the edges. “After all they did to you.” I stepped closer. Slow. Careful. Like my past was glass scattered on the floor. My hands rested on her shoulders, they trembled under my touch. “I know,” I said. And my voice cracked, because knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. “I remember the nights I begged myself to stay strong. I remember being hurt and convincing myself it was normal. I remember shrinking so others could feel bigger.” I didn’t forgive them . They don’t get that peace. I forgave myself, for not leaving sooner, for loving people who taught me pain, for thinking endurance was the same as worth. The memor...
If I'm Comfortable, Why Aren't You? From the time a woman is born, she’s told how to walk, how to talk, how to sit, smile, eat, behave, and even breathe. Society whispers rules into her ears: be polite, be gentle, don’t talk too much, don’t talk to too many men, sit properly, dress “modestly,” smile but not too much, be pretty but not “easy.” Why does the world get so uncomfortable when a woman is comfortable in her own skin? If she chooses to wear sleeveless, she’s judged. If her body is visible, people assume she’s asking for attention. If she talks to men freely, she’s labelled. If she wears makeup, she’s called “fake.” If she doesn’t, she’s deemed “unattractive.” When she’s slim, she’s told to “put on some weight,” and when she’s curvy, she’s told to “lose some.” It never ends. Let me say this clearly, being comfortable in your body, your choices, your clothes, your weight, and your way of speaking or not speaking is your right. You don’t need to shrink for anyone’s c...