There’s a kind of ache that comes not from being hurt, but from being unheard.
What is one supposed to do when you’ve used every version of your voice—gentle, firm, broken, quiet, loving, pleading—and still, it lands nowhere?
I’ve asked myself this question so many times, it echoes even in my silences.
You try explaining with kindness, using “I feel” instead of “You did,” hoping that maybe vulnerability will open a door. You try anger, hoping it’ll shake them awake. You try silence, thinking absence might speak louder than words. And yet…
Nothing.
Maybe they say sorry. Maybe they promise change.
But the patterns stay the same.
The story loops back, like a scratched record stuck on the same chorus.
And each time you bring it up again, you’re met with— “You always fight.”
“If you don’t like me, go find someone else.”
“I said sorry, didn’t I?”
That’s not understanding. That’s deflection.
That’s a wall where a bridge should be.
So then I wonder—
Is it me? Am I the problem? Do I just not know how to express myself?
Or… is it that they’ve grown used to the idea that I’ll stay?
That my boundaries are elastic, stretched by love, or fear, or just sheer hope.
And here’s the thing that hurts more than anything:
When you’re willing to grow with someone, but they expect you to shrink for them.
That’s when love becomes a quiet kind of grief.
But I’m learning something.
Trying isn’t always noble—it can become a trap. A loop of proving your worth to someone who stopped listening long ago.
And boundaries? They’re not a punishment. They’re a mirror. They reflect back to you what you believe you deserve.So maybe the question isn’t “Why won’t they change?”
Maybe the real question is—
Why am I still hoping they will?
