The Weight of This Heart

My Dear Stranger,

I was not born strong.

I was born soft.

With a heart that feels before it thinks,

that loves without asking.

that hears what is never spoken,

that notices pain hiding in the smallest corners.

At first, it felt like a gift.

Then it started to feel like a sentence. A burden. A curse.

My Dear Stranger,

Love scares me.

Not because it is bad,

but because it weakens me. It makes me weak.

When I love, I give too much. I feel too much.

I worry too much, I care too deeply,

I carry emotions that were never meant to be mine alone.

This heart does not know limits. It only knows everything.

Sometimes I feel like this heart is a curse.

To feel too deeply, too fully, too honestly,

and it hurts in ways that don’t bleed but still break you.

It hurts quietly, but it hurts for a long time.

People say I should be stronger,

They're not realizing that feeling is my strength, but also my weakness.

The reason I break.

So I learned to be cold. Distant.

Not because I wanted to, but because it was the only way to survive.

I built walls to protect myself.

Distance keeps me safe.

Silence became oxygen, help me to breath. To live for another day.

My Dear Stranger,

People don’t understand this heart I carry.

They see me pulling away.

They don’t see how tired I am.

They think I am distant.

They don’t know I am struggling to breathe.

They don’t hear the noise inside me,

the constant voices, the endless sensing, the weight of knowing too much.

My Dear Stranger,

This heart hears everything.

Unspoken grief.

Hidden loneliness.

Sadness in quiet voices.

Pain behind smiles.

Words that are never said.

I carry all of it,

until it becomes too heavy, that sometimes I can’t breathe.

My Dear Stranger,

Sometimes I have to run away.

Not away from people,

Not because I don’t care, but because I need to heal.

I need space. I need quiet.

Toward a place where my heart can rest without needing to save anyone.

There are days I wish I wasn’t born like this. Not with this much feeling.

Not with a heart that feels everything,

not with a soul that listens too closely.

Life would be easier.

Love would be simpler.

But this is who I am.

And with this kind of heart, I must survive.

I must be a fighter. Even when I am tired.

I must stand alone, not because I am strong,

but because there is no one else who can carry this weight for me.

So I keep going.

Day by day.

Quietly.

Holding my heart carefully with both hands.

Alone, yes.

But still breathing.

Still here.

Your stranger,

Vie