The Woman I Buried to Be Loved

Chapter 1 – Poem

There are versions of ourselves we outgrow—quietly, painfully, and often before we even realize they’re gone. This piece is a love letter to the woman I buried just to be loved, and the one rising in her place. If you’ve ever felt like you disappeared to keep the peace or shrank to fit a life that didn’t fit you, this is for you.

There was a version of me who wore silence like a mitten.

She folded her wild straws into neat origami.

She shrank to be held.

Stretched to fit the game.

Smiled so she wouldn’t be left.

Softened every untamed edge just to love.

All in the name of right and responsible—

Until she couldn’t feel herself anymore.

So she ripped it.

I mourned her before I even knew she was gone.

But the truth is—I wanted her gone.

Because that version of me was always trying.

Trying to say the right thing, at the right time, in the right tone.

Making everyone the right person.

Trying to be lovable in a language that never felt native.

I wore patience like skin. I stitched silence into my spine.

I confused self-abandonment for compassion.

Every time I quieted my need to keep the peace, I was applauded.

Every time I bent, I was told I was strong.

Every time I gave, there was “thanks.”

But strength isn’t how much silence you can swallow.

It’s how much of your truth you’re willing to speak—even when your voice shakes.

Even when nobody gives you the room.

No one tells you this.

Not even the therapist.

There is grief in choosing yourself.

Even when you know it’s time.

Even when the old life no longer fits.

Because buried inside that “good” version of me was the little girl who thought she was doing it right.

She thought if she made herself small enough, soft enough, needed enough,

She’d be safe.

When I stopped performing, people left.

And for a while, I thought that was proof I was wrong for taking up space.

But I see it now.

What left wasn’t love.

It was a contract I never signed—just kept renewing out of fear.

I didn’t heal to become agreeable.

I didn’t come this far to be digestible.

I’m not here to be liked.

I’m here to be real.

If the sky falls, I will still stand.

So I’m writing this for every woman who’s ever looked in the mirror and wondered,

“Where did I go?”

This is the answer.

You didn’t disappear.

You were buried.

And now—

You’re rising.