I kept shrinking myself. Softening my tone. Anticipating his moods before he even walked in the room. I changed the way I dressed, the way I laughed, the way I existed – hoping maybe this version of me would be enough. Hoping maybe this version wouldn’t be too loud, too much, too hard to love.

I kept thinking if I just loved him better, he’d stop breaking me. If I could be calmer, more patient, more understanding, maybe he’d finally see I wasn’t the enemy. That I was never trying to fight him – only the silence, the fear, the hurt that always showed up after the kindness left.

But the truth is, I could’ve twisted myself into a thousand gentler shapes and it still wouldn’t have been enough. Because the hurting wasn’t about me. It never was.

No one ever told me that someone else’s cruelty is not a reflection of my worth. That no matter how carefully I walked, some people still throw stones. And it was never my job to dodge them in silence.

It took me a long time to understand that love doesn’t ask you to disappear. That real love sees you fully and stays kind.

What I needed wasn’t to become someone less hurtable. I needed to stop believing I deserved to be hurt at all.