Hoping to be heard…

Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed to speak in a frequency the world has forgotten how to hear. I try so hard to soften the corners of my thoughts, to lace them in warmth and intention, yet they still land like sharp edges in someone else’s wound. I ask myself: How many times can a soul retranslate its truth before it forgets its original language?

It is lonely, this act of communication, this hope that someone, anyone, might feel the echo of my heart behind the weight of my words. And when they don’t, when irritation replaces understanding, I shrink. Not because I’m weak, but because I care. I carry my voice like fragile glass, not wanting it to shatter in the ears of those who won’t see the tenderness I meant.

But maybe the truth is… I was never meant to be understood by everyone. Maybe my language was carved for a different kind of listener. One who doesn’t just hear, but feels. One who sees the sacredness behind the struggle. And until they appear, I must find peace in speaking anyway, knowing that what flows from me comes from love, even if it is never fully received.