One of the hardest lines to walk is the one between understanding others and honoring yourself.
When you have a sensitive heart, you feel everything. You see through façades, and you know—sometimes too well—why people behave the way they do. You understand their wounds, their desperate need to be right, to maintain a certain image at any cost. And yet… you’ve been hurt. Deeply.
It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be both the empath and the injured party. To know that someone’s cruelty or indifference came from their own unhealed pain, and still have to carry the weight of what they did. To see clearly the pattern, the psychology, the dysfunction—and still feel the sting. It is also an opportunity for introspection which helps with feelings of empathy and compassion, leading to an understanding of my part in it all as well.
The toughest part isn’t just the pain—it’s what comes after. When you’ve done the work, when time has passed, when there’s no confrontation left to be had because they’ve moved on, untouched. And you’re left with the echoes. The realizations. The responsibility of healing.
That’s when the line gets blurry. Because while you may never get an apology or acknowledgment, you still have to forgive. Not just them—but yourself. For staying too long. For letting it slide. For not knowing better. For the chase of nothing. For being human. For giving away trust so freely—choosing to believe their words over the quiet truth my soul whispered.
Forgiving myself has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Healing is no joke. But it is the only path to clarity. To freedom. It’s how I reclaim my power—not by pretending it didn’t hurt, but by no longer letting those who hurt me define my present.
I understand them. But I choose me.
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