What do you want me to do?

.....

It took years. So many years. Years of trying to be something I wasn’t, trying to fit myself into places I didn’t belong, just to avoid the sting of being rejected. I thought I could shrink myself down, become invisible enough that no one would notice how different I was. I thought if I made myself small enough, quiet enough, maybe they would stop pointing out all the things that were “wrong” with me. I thought I could hide from myself—hide from all the parts of me that felt too loud, too big, too much.

I remember when it first started—when I first began to believe that something about me wasn’t right. I had this laugh, this loud, joyful, uncontainable laugh. It was my favorite thing about me, this thing that came from the deepest, truest part of me. But there she was. That girl. She mocked me for it. She laughed at my laugh. She laughed at my smile, my teeth, the way they showed when I got too excited. She made it feel like my joy wasn’t welcome, like my happiness was too big for the space it occupied. I was “ugly” because my teeth were “too brown” and too big. I was “unattractive” because I didn’t look like them.

That was the first time I tried to hide. The first time I tried to force myself to be smaller. So, I stopped laughing so loudly. I smiled, but only just enough to show politeness, not enough to let the joy pour out. I spent the next few years burying that laughter, telling myself it didn’t matter, that maybe if I stopped being so loud, people would like me more. Maybe then I wouldn’t be the target. Maybe then I wouldn’t be the joke.

And then there was the pinafore. I still remember the way it felt when I put it on, thinking it was cute, thinking it was fine. But when I stepped outside, they were all looking. Staring. Judging. The girls. They called me “D Baggy.” They laughed at how the fabric hung off my body, how the dress looked too big for me. They mocked my smallness. They mocked my difference. They made me feel like I didn’t belong.

I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone seeing me like that, so I shrank further. I hid in the classroom. I wouldn’t leave unless I absolutely had to, and when I did, I made sure to pull the pinafore down, tugging at it, trying to make myself look smaller. Smaller. Like that was the solution. Like I could disappear into the background if I just made myself small enough. It didn’t matter that I was already small, I wasn’t small enough for them. I wasn’t small enough to be “normal.” I wasn’t small enough to be accepted.

I spent years doing that. Shrinking, hiding, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I thought I could change enough to make everyone stop noticing the things I hated about myself. I thought if I became quiet enough, invisible enough, no one would hurt me anymore. No one would see me for the girl who didn’t fit in, who didn’t look like everyone else. But every time I tried to shrink, every time I tried to hide, it felt like I was suffocating. Like I was disappearing. And yet, no matter how much I tried to become smaller, no matter how much I tried to dim my light, I was still left feeling... too much.

It wasn’t until much later, much too late, that I realized something. I didn’t have to shrink anymore. I was enough just as I was.

But even now, some days, the weight of those years still presses down on me. It’s still there, that nagging voice telling me I’m too loud, too big, too much. And then I get into arguments. I get confronted. I’m told I’m shouting. I’m told I’m too loud when I raise my voice. And I get so frustrated. I get so angry. I want to scream. But I don’t. I can’t.

Because here’s the thing no one ever told me: I wasn’t always heard. As a kid, I wasn’t given the space to speak. I wasn’t listened to unless I raised my voice. My voice was tiny, barely a whisper. And so I shouted. I had to shout just to be noticed, just to be heard. But now, it’s automatic. It’s like my body doesn’t know any other way. When I’m confronted, when I feel cornered, my voice rises. I don’t even notice it until it’s too late.

And then I’m told that I’m “shouting too much.” That I’m being “too loud.” That I’m too much. And I get so angry. I get frustrated, I get confused. What do you want me to do? What am I supposed to do when I can’t even raise my voice without being criticized? What am I supposed to do when I just want to be heard, when all I’ve ever wanted is to be acknowledged?

It’s not my fault that I’ve learned to shout. It’s not my fault that I’ve had to raise my voice just to be seen. It’s not my fault that my voice rises without me even thinking about it. But no one seems to understand that. No one seems to get it.

And when my eyes start to sting, when the tears start to burn, they yell at me for that too. They yell at me for crying. They yell at me for not being able to control my emotions. But I don’t know what to do anymore. Am I not allowed to feel? I don’t know what to do when I feel like I’m constantly walking on eggshells, trying to keep myself from breaking apart.

So, I ask again: What do you want me to do?

I’m tired. I’m tired of being too loud, too quiet, too much, not enough. I’m tired of trying to shrink myself, only to find that no matter how much I shrink, the world still won’t accept me as I am. I’m tired of being told that I’m too much. I’m tired of having to fight for every inch of space I occupy. I’m tired of holding my breath, afraid that if I breathe too loudly, someone will notice me, someone will tell me I’m doing it wrong. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t belong in a world that tells me I shouldn’t exist in the way I do.

But even with all of that, I’m learning. I’m learning to stop shrinking. I’m learning to raise my voice when I need to. I’m learning that my feelings are valid, even if they scare people. I’m learning that I don’t need to apologize for existing, for taking up space, for being me.

Because, for once, I deserve to take up space. I deserve to be heard. I deserve to be seen.

And if my voice rises? Then let it rise. If I need to laugh, then I’ll laugh. If I need to be angry, then I’ll be angry. Because this is me. All of me.

And I won’t hide anymore. I won’t shrink anymore. I won’t let the world make me believe that I don’t have the right to be here.