She Stayed Because It Was Pretty There

they called her lucky — because she never had to pay the bill for her own silence. because someone always pulled the chair, held the door, told her she was “too precious to bleed.” they gave her things soft enough to confuse her skin into forgetting what it’s like to be wild. but she knew — deep down, a golden cage is still a cage. she learned to smile with lips stitched shut and wear the dress of dignity like it wasn’t choking her ribs. they said, "you’re so graceful," but never asked what it cost to hold that much grace in hands that only wanted to break things. she kept hoping that someone would see the cracks not as flaws, but as places where the light was trying to get in. but they only saw the mess. they only loved her when she was unbroken, quiet, beautiful in ways they understood. so she learned to bleed internally — to cry only in bathrooms with the tap running. to scream in ways no one could hear — like cleaning the kitchen twice when she already did it once, like over-apologizing for taking up space. she started talking to the mirror. not because it had answers, but because it didn’t interrupt. and one day, she didn’t smile back. she just whispered, “I miss you.” not the woman they made, but the girl she buried under all the “shoulds.” and that night — not loud, not dramatic, not even brave — she simply stopped asking for permission. and maybe, the world won’t applaud her for it. maybe they’ll say she lost her way. but she knows — losing their version of you is the first step to remembering your own name. no suitcase dragging behind like a metaphor. she just woke up one morning, and stopped folding herself. she wore her voice like skin. not loud. just present. and when they said, “you’ve changed,” she didn’t flinch. she smiled, the kind of smile that knows what it cost to return to your own bones. she still remembers how easy it was to disappear politely. but now — she writes her name in full. no longer a hostage. no longer a pretty prisoner. just a woman, wild in her softness, unapologetic in her becoming, and finally — free. First, Be Human disown all your privilege — the velvet cages, the praise wrapped in chains, the softness used to silence you. don't be a woman. not first. not only. Be human. your freedom won’t come wrapped in roses or rituals. it will come the day you stop being what they told you you were born to be.