Here is a poem for all of us who carried the pain that was never ours to carry, for all of us (still) protecting those
who didn’t think twice about hurting us.

Because disappointing someone is sometimes nothing more than refusing to become the museum of their memory. And it is only when we let these people down that we can begin to love who we are and grieve who we had been.

One of the hardest lessons about love I have learned is that sometimes what drowns us isn’t the storm—it’s our inability to let go of the people we’re trying to save, and that once we choose to heal, we no longer owe anyone the person they remember.

Dear Past Selves,

I carried you long past all our best-by dates.

You never wanted to be let go of,
so I never let you go.

Even on a sinking ship,
I abandoned myself
So you wouldn’t drown.
That’s when I felt your hands
Still holding on.

Heavy loyalty.

It was your grip,
not the water,
that kept pulling me under.

You thought that everything
Worth holding onto
Must be earned
,
Begging for what you deserved
For free.
Who were you free to be?
…
Drifting further away from me.

Yet
your wounded heart
remained a harbor
for ships
that never intended
to stay.

Who was there
to mother the daughter,
who kept turning herself
 into the lifeboat
so men
who called themselves
captains
could stay afloat
at your expense?

So I had to leave.

I learned a new language,
a new address,
a new name,
a new home.

I became
my own ocean.

My tides do not apologize
for leaving the shore.
My waves do not cry
For letting ghosts sink.

So I thank you,
For surviving with the bare minimum
You were told was plenty.

For believing in a kind of big love
You never felt before.

For carrying me
until I was finally strong enough
to set you down gently.

You are not mistakes.

You are every shoreline
I had to leave
to discover
I was never the shore.

I was always
the water.

~