"This Is What Surviving Looks Like” — Journal, Age 15

They keep saying I’m the problem.

Too loud.

Too emotional.

Too “disrespectful.”

I just stopped pretending their version of love doesn’t include bruises.

I’m tired.

Tired of the eggshells crunching under every word I say.

Tired of flinching at footsteps that should’ve meant safety.

Tired of the way they twist every tear from me into attitude.

Ungrateful.

Too much.

They made the mess,

and I’m the one scrubbing it out of my skin?

How the hell does that make sense?

I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t ask to be born into a war I didn’t start.

Didn’t ask to be screamed at till my voice learned to hide.

Didn’t ask to be pushed aside, ignored, and still expected to smile like I wasn’t slowly disappearing.

They call it “discipline.”

Call it what it is:

Abuse.

Neglect.

Gaslighting with a bow on top.

“You’re too sensitive.”

As if that’s the problem.

Let me be clear:

I started making noise when I realized silence only got me hurt.

They tell me I slam doors.

Damn right, I do.

That door was the only thing I could control.

The only thing loud enough to say what my voice couldn’t.

You ever try bleeding quietly?

I have.

I got loud.

I got angry.

Now — Ten Years Later

I’m Tiffany.

I’m 25 years old now, and reading what I wrote back then still sets something in me on fire. Because I remember her,  all attitude and armor, but underneath it? She was just trying to be safe. Just trying to be seen.

I grew up being told I was the problem.

That I was too much.

That I had an attitude.

But no one stopped to ask why I was always on edge. Why I flinched. Why I fought back like my life depended on it.

Spoiler: It did.

The truth is, I was punished for the harm other people did to me.

I took on the guilt of grown adults who never learned to be safe for their own children. I learned to apologize just to survive. I learned to shrink or explode, because there was no middle ground when survival was the only goal.

I was taken out of my home at 15, but the real escape took years.

The mental escape. The emotional one.

And even now, some days, I still hear their voices echo when I mess up or feel too much. But I don’t let those voices run my life anymore.

Now I speak softer, not because I’ve lost my fire, but because I finally know my worth doesn’t have to be shouted to be heard.

I’m a wife now, married to a man who doesn’t flinch when I cry or get loud.

I’m a mom to a daughter who I’m raising with the safety and softness I never had.

And I’m still healing loudly, honestly, and unapologetically.

Pages I Never Shared isn’t about pretending I have it all figured out.

It’s about sharing what healing really looks like when you’re still walking through the messy middle.

It’s about being angry, tender, tired, and strong, sometimes all at once.

It’s for the children who were called problems when they were actually in pain.

If that’s you, I see you.

You were never the villain.

You were just trying to survive a story that wasn’t your fault.

This is my first page.

Thank you for turning it with me.

— Tiffany 🤍