I didn’t burn any bridges.
But I made a conscious decision to stop walking toward people who never had the intention of meeting me halfway. And when I paused long enough to feel what was really happening beneath the surface, I realized something quietly, but powerfully:
I no longer belong in those rooms.
NOT because I think I’m better than anyone.
NOT because I need to be the loudest voice in the space.
But because, for the first time in a long time, I’m being honest with myself.
I’m no longer interested in forcing myself to fit into places where I have to shrink to be accepted.
I’m no longer pretending not to notice the subtle games, the passive competition, the shallow energy wrapped in well-packaged words.
It’s exhausting to keep smiling through conversations that leave me feeling emptier than when I arrived.
For too long, I’ve tolerated performative kindness. I’ve clapped for people who were more invested in appearing powerful than being real.
I’ve stayed silent to keep the peace, even when the peace was only surface-deep and my intuition was screaming underneath.
But something shifted. It didn’t feel like rage. It felt like truth. A calm, unwavering truth that said:
“This isn’t alignment. This is performance. And I don’t want to play along anymore.”
The Withdrawal
She didn’t slam the door.
She didn’t raise her voice or start a fire on the way out. She didn’t craft some clever exit speech to make a point.
She just… got tired.
Tired of pretending she does not notice. Tired of overextending and cushioning every space so others didn’t feel their hollowness. She got tired of being the one who always “understands.”
And when that kind of tired sets in, not the tired that wants a nap, but the tired that comes from years of offering what was never truly received — something shifts.
She didn’t have the energy to keep explaining herself. Her tenderness had limits, after all. And she could no longer keep giving it to those who mistook it for something endless, whether they meant to or not. So she began the slow, quiet process of taking herself back.
The parts of her that used to light up at the chance to show up for others…dimmed, folded inward, and returned home to rest. Not out of cruelty or ego. But because even kindness gets tired of being misunderstood.
Those who once basked in her generosity began to feel the chill. Not because she punished them, but because they were finally feeling the absence of what they never truly honored.
There were no dramatic exits. No calls for attention. She just stopped making herself available to people who thought her energy came with no cost.
The Return
It didn’t happen in a journal entry or some healing circle. It happened while she was standing in the kitchen, holding her breath through one more message that asked for “just a quick favor.”
It happened while she was folding laundry, remembering that she was the one who always reached out first, who always texted as much as possible just to connect, and how exhausting that had quietly become.
It happened when she was too tired to answer. Too full of other people’s weight and done pretending she didn’t notice the silence when it was her turn to need something.
That’s when it clicked. Not like a lightning bolt, but more like a neck crack after years of tension.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Not like this.”
And in that quiet, fed-up moment, she pulled her energy back without warning. Not to prove a point, but because she couldn’t keep giving the parts of herself that were already running on empty.
It wasn’t about teaching anyone a lesson. It was about not abandoning herself — again.
Her body was tired. Her spirit was louder. And she finally let that be enough.
Maybe they didn’t mean to take or just thought their silence didn’t matter. Maybe they convinced themselves their distance was "just a normal thing". And maybe they felt better calling it space when it was avoidance.
They didn’t notice how much she gave until the giving stopped. And no one wants to ask themselves, gently:
Was I ever truly present?
Or did I just enjoy the light while it was easy?
This isn’t shame. This is a pause. A glorious moment to realize that some people don’t leave loudly. They leave when they’re no longer willing to abandon themselves for your comfort.
If you're reading this and feeling something stir - do not run from it. You don’t have to spiral or shame yourself. Just sit with it. Ask yourself how you show up for the people who made you feel safe. And maybe, this time, choose presence over performance.
If this landed somewhere in your chest — stay close. I don’t write for attention. I write for those who feel it. If you felt it, you’re already walking home to yourself, too. 🩶