People Who Feel Everything but Say Nothing
I don’t remember when I started keeping things to myself. It wasn’t a decision I made one day. It happened gradually after a few moments where I spoke honestly and felt misunderstood, after a few times, my feelings were brushed off as overthinking, after realising that explaining myself often left me feeling more exposed than understood.
I feel things quickly and deeply. Not just big emotions, but the small ones that slip past most people. The shift in energy when someone is no longer fully present. The difference between a message sent because someone wants to talk and one sent out of habit. I notice when effort changes, when warmth fades, when something unspoken begins to settle between two people.
I don’t confront it right away. I sit with it. I give it time. I tell myself not to assume the worst. I tell myself I’m imagining things. But somewhere inside, I already know when something isn’t the same anymore.
I think a lot before I speak. I replay words in my head, testing how they might sound out loud. I wonder if I’ll be taken seriously, or if I’ll be told I’m being too sensitive. I wonder if opening up will bring clarity or just make things awkward. Most of the time, silence feels safer than the risk of being honest.
And the thing is, I’ve said it so often that people believe me. Sometimes, I almost believe it too.
I carry emotions the way some people carry old photographs carefully, quietly, tucked away where no one else can see them. Conversations I still think about. Things I wish I’d said differently. Moments where I needed reassurance but didn’t know how to ask for it without feeling needy or demanding.
People come to me when they need to talk. When they’re overwhelmed. When they need someone who listens without judgment. I’m good at holding space for others. I know how to be present, how to understand, how to offer comfort without making things about me. But when it’s my turn, I hesitate. I don’t know how to take up that space without feeling like I’m asking for too much.
I’ve been called strong more times than I can count. Calm. Independent. Easy to deal with. What people don’t see is how much effort that takes. How much emotional work goes into staying composed? How often I push my own feelings aside to avoid being a problem.
I love quietly. I don’t love halfway, but I also don’t love loudly. I show it in consistency, in remembering details, in staying even when things are uncomfortable. I don’t need grand gestures. I just need honesty and effort to stay the same. And when I don’t feel that anymore, I don’t argue about it. I don’t beg. I don’t ask people to change.
I just slowly pull back.
Leaving is never sudden for me. It happens after I’ve tried to understand, after I’ve made excuses, after I’ve given more chances than anyone realises. When I finally step away, it’s not because I stopped caring. It’s because holding on started to hurt more than letting go.
I’m not afraid of vulnerability. I’m afraid of being vulnerable in spaces where my feelings will be minimised. I’m afraid of opening up only to be met with silence, defensiveness, or indifference. So I protect myself the only way I know how, by staying quiet.
If you’re someone who feels everything but says nothing, I know how heavy that can get. I know how lonely it feels to be emotionally present everywhere except where you need it most. I know how exhausting it is to carry depth in a world that prefers things light and easy.
But you’re not wrong for feeling the way you do. You’re not too sensitive. You’re not asking for too much. You’re just asking in a world that doesn’t always know how to listen.
And maybe one day, you’ll find people who don’t make you question your feelings. People who don’t rush you to explain, or label you as difficult for needing clarity. People who make it feel safe to speak without rehearsing every word first.
