Not Broken, Just Conditioned

There’s a heaviness I carry

That no one seems to see

a quiet ache beneath my smile

A storm I keep just beneath me

Fatigue has made a home in my bones

My voice a whisper in crowded rooms

Tears build behind tired eyes

But I fear if they fall, they’ll flood the moon

Anxiety curls around my ribs

Like ivy clinging to forgotten walls

The phone stays silent, the house too still

No footsteps echo in these halls

Sometimes I hear her in my head

The voice that never softened

"Maybe it’s you,” she’d say

And part of me still listens, far too often

I crave a safe place to land

A steady hand to still my mind

But comfort feels like a foreign language

I’ve never quite been able to find

So I breathe through the ache

Lace up my weariness like shoes

And walk through the hour

With nothing left to prove

Because even in the shadows

My heart keeps beating its truth

I am not what they called me

And I will not die in this booth

One step, one sigh, one silent prayer

I carry on, cracked but whole

Still searching for the dawn

That lives beyond this soul

Lately, I’ve been feeling invisible.

I go out of my way to help others, to lift them up, to make them feel seen. But most days, I don’t feel like I get the same in return. I’ve always gone the extra mile—offering my time, my energy, even when I had nothing left to give. I used to think that was just kindness. But really, it was survival.

Why did I do it?

Because I believed I had to. That people would only like me—love me—if I gave them everything. And that belief? It started with my mother.

From a young age, I was taught—explicitly and implicitly—that her needs came first. That love was conditional. That I was valuable only when I was useful. If I comforted her, supported her, sacrificed myself, then I was worthy. And so I became the emotional caretaker, long before I even knew what that meant.

I carried that pattern into every relationship I had. I thought love meant never saying no. I believed boundaries were walls that would push people away. I gave and gave—until there was nothing left of me.

It took years—painful, messy, soul-shaking years—to learn that saying yes to everyone does not make you lovable. It makes you easy to use. And when you stop giving, people leave. Or worse, they turn on you.

Now, nearly 40, I look around and realize: I don’t have real friendships. I don’t have people I can fully be myself with. I don’t have a partner, and while I’ve made peace with that, sometimes I do grieve. Not the lack of a relationship—but the version of myself I could have been. The one who wasn’t controlled, manipulated, or shamed for choosing herself.

When I was a teenager, I ran away often. Back then, if you’d asked me why, I’d have shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” But I do now. I was running for freedom. I was running from her. From the crushing silence, the threats, the punishment for speaking the truth. I did tell people what was happening. They just didn’t believe me. And when no one believes you, you stop trusting your own voice too.

Let me be clear: Kids aren't born broken. They're made to feel that way.

Most days, I’m okay with being alone. Solitude is safer than betrayal. But right now, I’m facing some big life decisions. And honestly? It would be nice to have someone in my corner. Someone I didn’t have to earn, or fix, or shrink myself for. Someone who just sees me—and stays.

I'm not broken, just conditioned.