The Shapes She Learned to Take

There are ways of being
that are not quite lies—
only strategic apologies,
carefully-placed smiles,
a softening that takes more
than it gives.

She does not remember
the first time she stepped aside
from her own knowing,
only that the ground beneath her
stopped asking
what she needed.

A culture built
to praise dominance and control
taught her early
that her safety
was tethered
to someone else’s comfort.

And so—
she learned to vanish
without leaving the room.

She became, unbeknownst to her,
the pause that kept the peace,
the nod that calms the storm,
the warmth mistaken
for willingness.

A part of her believed
this was kindness.
A part of her believed
it was strength.
A part of her believed
all roses must have thorns.

Still, close to the bone,
something remembers
that this
was never a choice—
that the cost of her hollow belonging
was her brilliance,
and what her body
called mercy
when it could not find
a door.

But she awakes—
the heart, reclaimed, sits beside the one
who still tries to steady the air
by appeasing.

It does not ask her to stop.
It listens.
It thanks her.
It bears witness to the terror underneath. 

And then,
with a breath wide enough
to hold all that came before,
she speaks aloud
for the first time:

I. Am. Here.
I do not need to shrink
to be safe.
And I will sing
what was once unsayable—
my truth,
in my own voice,
at last.

This piece was born to honor that what we often call fawning or appeasement is not a character flaw—but a survival strategy. It’s something we learn in response to an environment that rewards our softening more than our truth.

Culture lays the groundwork—through unspoken rules about who is safe to be, and what is safe to express. And trauma drives it deeper—especially for those with non-dominant identities.

This poem isn’t just about the loss of voice. It’s about the loss of basic support: safety, care, attunement. It’s about what we give up to stay close—proximity without presence, acceptance without authenticity. 

It’s also about what can become possible when we turn back toward the parts of us that learned to keep us safe by making us small—and offer them something they were never given: compassion, genuine connection, and the space to finally exhale.