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I didn’t know how to say it back then.
But I see you now.

You were never meant to hold the silence in that house.
You were never meant to become the balm for everyone else’s ache.
You didn’t fail. You adapted.

That tenderness you carried—the ache to make things better, the way you folded yourself smaller just to keep the peace—that was never weakness.
It was love trying to find a shape that could survive.

But here’s the truth I couldn’t give you then:
It was never yours to carry.

The system broke. And in the confusion that followed, you tried to become a bridge between too many fractured hearts.
But that was never your job.

You were the light in the room, not the glue.

If I could go back, I wouldn’t tell you to be strong.
I’d tell you to be a kid. To rest. To laugh more. To let someone else be the grown-up.

I know that doesn’t erase the ache.
But I hope it frees you from thinking it was ever your fault.

You’ve grown into someone extraordinary.
Not because you carried it all.
But because, even now, you’re learning how to finally set it down.

And I’ll be right here—
honoring the light you always were,
and the freedom you are now allowing yourself to choose.