How I Returned to Myself (poem)

 

They laughed
when the tears came.

"It's just a movie."

As if stories
aren't mirrors.
As if hearts
aren't meant
to respond.

They smiled 
tight, careful smiles 
When I spoke with fire.

"You're so intense."

And before any hard words
were spoken,
I was warned:

"Please don't cry."

So I learned
to swallow oceans
before they reached my eyes.

I learned
to steady my voice
while storms
rage in my chest.

I became careful.
Measured.
Manageable.

And in that becoming,
I began to disappear.

But it was never
just about the tears.

It was the way the air shifted
when I walked into a room.
The way silence
held texture.
The way sadness
announced itself
before it had a name.

It settled in my bones
like weather.

I felt what no one said.
Heard what wasn't spoken.
Carried what wasn't mine 
until I realized
it wasn't a burden.

It was designed.

They said my tears were accidents,
a body misfiring,
a mind too fragile,
a heart too easily moved.
But heaven whispered otherwise 
that sensitivity was not weakness,
but a doorway into things
Others refused to feel.

I learned my emotions were not storms
to be outgrown,
but signals from a God
who speaks in currents and whispers.
He wired my heart to tremble
so it could notice what others numb.
He made me feel deeply
so I could see clearly.

They called it emotional.
God called it aware.

They called it too much.
God called it entrusted.

Because depth
in a shallow world
will always look excessive.

For a long time,
I believed I was malfunctioning 
a heart wired wrong,
a spirit too loud.

So I shrank.
Softened my edges.
Dimmed my knowing.

Until God, in mercy,
met me there.

Not to harden me.
Not to silence me.

But to refine me.

To teach me
how to feel
without drowning.
How to discern
without absorbing.
How to stay soft
without breaking.

Now, when the room shifts,
I don't panic.

I pray.

When I sense weight,
I don't shrink.

I stay.

Because what once exhausted me
There was never a weakness.

It was calling, 
waiting
for healing.

So no 
I was never too much.

I was deep
in rooms, afraid of drowning.

I was light
in places that preferred dim.

And I will not apologize
for the way God
wired my heart:

Soft.
Strong.
Awake.