It’s just an attempt to write something many of us have felt or witnessed, maybe even taken part in, consciously or not.

I believe we’re all doing the best we can. And I also believe we can grow into better versions of ourselves when we’re ready to face fear.

…

At first glance, it looked like a comeback story.

As if they were trying to prove themselves.

To finally be seen.

But that’s not what they were doing.

They weren’t competing, they were growing.

Moving from who they used to be,

toward who they were becoming.

You noticed them.

They were clear, consistent, and maybe a little too happy.

And something in you… got triggered.

So you acted, not loudly.

Not cruelly, not at first.

A nudge here. A doubt there.

You made assumptions about them,

Then launched your attack.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

That they were overreacting.

That it was just misunderstanding.

You didn’t see a weapon.

But they bled anyway,

on the silence that no one dared interrupt.

And here’s the part you don’t say out loud:

You weren’t trying to destroy them.

You were trying to protect something.

Your position, your certainty.

Your story about yourself

as someone people can trust.

And that fear?

It didn’t start here.

You were still small when it happened.

Someone turned on you,

a teacher, a parent, maybe a friend.

You hadn’t done anything wrong,

but suddenly the room shifted,

and you were alone.

Your face burned, you didn’t cry.

You just learned.

You learned that doing the right thing doesn’t protect you.

Being nice doesn’t save you.

Being quiet doesn’t make them go away.

So you made a promise:

Before they turn on you,

you’ll annihilate them first.

You didn’t become cruel to be powerful.

You became cruel to be safe.

You compromised your integrity, hoping it would take away your pain.

But you’re a grown person now, and they were never your enemy.

They were just doing their own thing,

and they reminded you

of that little boy or girl… your face burning red hot.

Do you remember how they looked at you,

Knowing what you had done?

They grieved for you and what you thought you had to do.

Because they knew:

it wasn’t malice. It was fear.

Fear clinging to old systems,

old rules.

If you had just asked,

just spoken to them, not about them,

they would’ve said:

“It’s not your fault the old systems failed you.

But I was never here to compete with you,

I came to build.”

And they did.

While you defended territory, they refined their craft.

While you fought for control, they mapped constellations.

While you spun their story without their consent,

they wrote new ones, and the appendix too.

So now, you know.

And once you know,

you have a choice.

Let shame make you smaller.

Or let grief grow you.

You don’t have to stay cruel to be safe.

You don’t have to push people down

just to stay upright.

Bring your fear in one hand,

and your willingness in the other.

Come back.

We’re still here.

And we’re not whole without you.