She Said +l+ He Said

She Said

I gave a gift—a collection years in the making, shaped over a lifetime. A part of my soul poured onto pages—poetry, stories, and lessons that bridge the ages. This wasn’t just for one person; it was for everyone—family, community, a labor of love that stretches beyond me.

Click. Publish. The weight of the world on my chest, but I did it. I stood there, vulnerable, raw. My truth, my voice, my scars laid bare. "Merry Christmas," I said, in a way that felt both freeing and terrifying.

Then came the silence. No words of thanks, just the quiet discomfort, the heavy weight of disapproval. It threatened to crush the courage I had to even breathe.

You read just one post. One. And then you asked me to take it down. Did you understand how long it took for me to stand here? For my voice to stop shaking, long enough to say, "Here I am. This is me"?

You said it was about privacy. But what I heard was: "Hide. Bury it. Lock it away." Hide my truth, my story, my pain. Hide the version of me that doesn’t fit the picture-perfect image of our lives.

I waited for a "thank you." I waited for a moment, just one, where you’d say, "I see you." Instead, there were boundaries, safety, and protection. But where was my safety in silence?

And then you said, “Take some time. Find yourself.” Find myself? I’ve always been here. But you don’t see me. You see the roles I play, the caretaker, the provider… not the woman who has fought her battles, clenched fists and bleeding heart.

I’m tired. Tired of feeling like my truth is too much, my voice too loud, my presence disruptive in a world that values silence.

I have no one. No friend to call, no shoulder to lean on—just this keyboard, these words pouring out, my emotions uncorked. Do I share this? Do I keep it in a box labeled “Mom’s Stories,” forgotten until I’m no longer here to tell them?

I gave a gift. Or maybe it wasn’t a gift at all. Maybe it was a curse—of truth, vulnerability, and authenticity. A curse you couldn’t accept. And now I sit here, alone, with too much sadness and not enough room to be who I am.

But still, I write. Because if I stop, who will hear me? Who will remember that I existed?

He Said

She gave a gift—wrapped in courage, tied with vulnerability. A collection of her heart laid bare—poetry, stories, the weight of her soul. I read it, and my chest tightened. Not from the beauty of it, but from the danger it invited.

Click. Publish. She stood raw before the world, and all I could think was: the world isn’t kind. It doesn’t care about her courage. It’s unforgiving. And now she’s exposed.

I read one post. Just one. And I saw our lives laid bare: struggles, heartbreaks, losses—not as stories of triumph, but as vulnerabilities. What if someone used these against her? What if it hurt us?

I thought about it. How do I protect her from this? How do I ask her to take it down without tearing her apart?

“Take it down,” I said. And I saw the light dim in her eyes. What I meant was safety, but what she heard was silencing.

I never meant to hurt her. I never meant to erase her. But I saw the danger—the cracks where light gets in or where darkness leaks out.

She spoke of courage. She stood raw and open. But I saw the targets on her back. She wanted to be seen. I wanted her to be shielded.

“Take some time,” I said. “Find yourself.” But I see now how that sounded—a rejection, a dismissal of the brave woman standing before me.

I love her. I love her courage, her words, her truth. But love made me afraid—afraid of judgment, of how the world might hurt her, of how it might break us.

Now, I sit here, in this small place, trying to find the words she needs to hear: “I see you. I love you. I want to protect you… but I won’t hide you.”