If I listened
If I listened to my family,
I would tuck ambition into a clean pair of scrubs,
learn to take blood pressure with a practiced smile,
memorize the names of bones,
chart heartbeats and healing
as if that alone could save me.
I would wake early,
work late,
say “I’m fine” when I’m not,
because they say nurses make good money,
and isn’t that the measure?
Security wrapped in aching feet
and polite exhaustion.
I would nod along at dinners
while they said, “You’re doing something real, something that matters.”
And maybe I would matter–
but only in the way they wanted me to.
If I listened to my head,
I would become a psychologist.
Sit across from pain in an armchair.
Give it a name.
Take the broken bits of others
and try to piece them together
the way I’ve always tried to piece myself.
I would wear calm like a coat,
collect stories not to tell them,
but to understand why people leave,
why hearts break,
why silence sometimes screams the loudest.
I want to help.
God, I want to help.
But sometimes I wonder if that’s just the part of me
that’s still trying to fix
what my own childhood couldn’t.
But if I listened to my heart–
not the edited version I show on good days,
not the careful one that tries to please–
but the wild, messy, aching truth of it…
I’d write.
I’d write until the world made sense.
or until I did.
I’d spill the girl I was at seven,
afraid of losing her father
before she knew what forever meant.
I’d pour the teenager I am now–
torn between being soft and being strong,
tired of choosing.
I’d tell the story
of a voice that never felt loud enough,
but still refused to be quiet.
I’d be an author.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because it pays well.
But because somewhere,
a girl like me is sitting in her room
trying to figure out why she feels so much
and why no one sees it.
And maybe, just maybe,
my words would find her
and say,
“You’re not alone.”
If I listened to my heart,
I’d stop asking permission
to be who I already am.
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