We Didn't Mean To

Not because I’m strong, but because I’m afraid of being vulnerable, of showing just how messy things are beneath the surface.

There are people we’ve stopped talking to, not because they wronged us or because they weren’t good for us, but because we felt like we were no longer good for them. Sometimes, the weight of what we carry inside becomes so suffocating that it starts to feel unfair to share it with anyone else. So, we pull back—not because we stopped caring, but because we care too much. We believe we’re doing them a favor by sparing them the burden of our struggles, our darkness, our mess.

It’s not easy to explain, especially when the words don’t seem enough to capture the storm inside. Sometimes, it's easier to drift away quietly, hoping they’ll never notice the absence. I don’t want to be the person who dims their light or taints their happiness with the shadows I can’t shake off. I don’t want them to feel responsible for fixing a part of me that’s so tangled I don’t even know where to start. So, I disappear, slowly, quietly—without explanation.

But I wonder if they know that. I wonder if they understand that it’s not them, that it’s me. It sounds cliché, but it’s true. It’s me, trying to figure out how to navigate my own chaos without dragging anyone else into it. I’ve always been the type to carry things alone, even when the weight is unbearable. Not because I’m strong, but because I’m afraid of being vulnerable, of showing just how messy things are beneath the surface. Afraid that if I let anyone in, they’ll see the cracks and be disappointed, or worse, they’ll try to fix me when I’m not sure I can be fixed.

There’s a kind of loneliness that comes with this, a loneliness that’s self-imposed yet inescapable. You start to believe that by distancing yourself, you’re protecting them. You convince yourself that they’re better off without your burdens, that maybe it’s better to be alone than to risk dragging someone else down. But that loneliness—it seeps into everything. You find yourself missing conversations you used to have, the laughter, the simple presence of someone who made things feel lighter, if only for a moment. You miss the connections, but you tell yourself this is how it has to be. I think about the people I stopped talking to—the ones I faded away from without a proper goodbye. Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if they think I don’t care anymore, or if they’ve moved on, accepting my silence as indifference. It’s strange, the way you can care so deeply for someone and still feel like you have to push them away. But that’s what I did. Not because they weren’t important to me, but because I felt like I was slowly becoming a version of myself they didn’t need in their life.

Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

Maybe that’s the worst part—not being able to explain it, not knowing how to put into words that I’m not angry, that I don’t hate them, that I never wanted to disappear. It’s just that sometimes life becomes too heavy to carry, and the only way I know how to cope is by retreating into myself. It’s a survival mechanism, one I’ve perfected over time, but it’s not without its consequences.

In the quiet moments, when the world slows down, I wonder if I made the right choice. Did I really protect them, or did I just rob them of the chance to be there for me? Maybe they wouldn’t have minded carrying a little of my load. Maybe they would’ve wanted to stay, even in the mess. But how do you take that chance when you’ve spent so long convincing yourself that your problems are yours alone to bear? I guess I’m still learning that it’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to let people see the parts of me that aren’t polished, the parts that are still healing or breaking. But that’s a hard lesson to learn when you’ve spent so long believing that showing your brokenness means showing weakness.

Sometimes, I wonder if the people I left behind understand. I hope they do. I hope they know that it was never about them, that it was me—trying to figure out how to exist in a world that sometimes feels too heavy. I hope they know that I still think about them, that I still care deeply, even if I’m not there to show it.

And maybe one day, when the storm has passed and the weight isn’t so crushing, I’ll be able to reach out again. Maybe then, I’ll find the words to explain the silence, to apologize for the distance, and to let them know that they mattered more than they realized.

But until then, I carry on in my quiet, solitary way, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’ll understand that sometimes people walk away not because they stopped caring, but because they cared too much to let their darkness touch the ones they love.