We don’t just grow up with our own experiences – we grow up with the stories that surround us. Some are shaped by moments, some by misunderstandings, and some by things we were never fully part of.
It’s a quiet thing, the way narratives take hold. Once they settle, they follow, shaping how someone is seen, and how they come to see themselves. To be understood through fragments, rather than as a whole.
To be interpreted, without fully being seen, or known.
Over time, all views formed were not shaped by my understanding of me, nor did they reflect my circumstances.
Those were connected to differences in how I was able to process and respond to the world. What remained was a quieter, ongoing experience of being perceived by others in ways that did not align with my intention.
At the time, I did not yet have the language to understand. That came decades later.
Through time and writing that understanding eventually changed. Not in what had been said, because that wasn't something I could control, but in what I chose to carry. A quieter recognition of what was mine, and what was never mine to keep.
Just as I have had to understand what was mine to keep, there needs to be a recognition for others to recognise what is theirs to carry.
These moments are not about revisiting or correcting what cannot be undone. They are only about standing, quietly, in what feels true and naming, gently, what it changed.
