Now that I’m out, I can finally feel it. I used to think leaving would be the hard part, but it turns out feeling safe is what unlocks everything you once had to bury. The body keeps score, and now it’s finally cashing in.

Some days it feels like drowning in memories no one else saw. Things that looked normal from the outside but gutted me in ways I couldn’t explain. I still flinch at voices that sound too calm before they turn sharp.

I used to rehearse excuses just in case someone asked what was wrong. But no one ever did. So I learned how to carry silence like armor and pain like second skin.

Sometimes the grief comes in the form of questions I’ll never get answers to. Why didn’t anyone step in? Why did I have to play every role but the one where I got to be held?

And even now, when I try to name it out loud, I find myself apologizing. As if survival needs justification. As if staying quiet all those years somehow still wasn’t enough.