The warning at the crossroads!!

 We often think of the comments left on our old posts as mere digital footprints. But sometimes, they are more like a lighthouse beam caught in a bottle—waiting fifteen years for us to finally see the light.

Recently, I revisited a post from early 2011 about a school essay competition. It was a story about how my father’s literary depth helped me win a prize, but also how the world sometimes hesitates when a child thinks "too differently."

Tucked away in the comments was a response left in July of that year by an anonymous reader. It has been nearly fifteen years, but the words felt like a sudden hand on my shoulder:

"Follow ur mind & Heart, but before that ask ur soul IS THIS WHT U WANT.."

In 2011, I responded with the polite intellect of a young woman who thought she knew her path. I didn't realize then that the commenter wasn't just engaging in a philosophical debate. They were standing at a crossroads, watching me prepare to walk away, and they were offering a quiet, final warning.

They knew me. They knew that my mind required a peer, not just a partner. They likely saw that the path I was choosing—one of duty, of "mentorship" over partnership, of deciphering silence and lies just to maintain peace—would eventually demand a price I hadn't yet calculated.

"Is this what you want?"

Fifteen years later, I look back at that crossroads from the other side. I have lived the answer. I have carried the "numb strength" that comes from being the anchor for everyone else. I have experienced the loneliness of having a "different intelligence" than those closest to me.

The truth is, I never wanted to be this "Strong." I almost always question who needed this so called strength?

Deep within, I miss being silly. I miss the version of myself that didn't have to decipher every word or maintain every boundary. I look back at that fifteen-year-old warning and realize that I missed out on the fate of being protected. I missed the chance to hold on to something—or someone—who could have allowed me to be vulnerable.

To be vulnerable is a luxury I haven't been afforded. Instead of a soft place to land, I was given a heavy weight to carry. My "strength" was a replacement for the love I needed to simply grow, rather than just survive.

Was it a warning? Yes. Was it a premonition of the loneliness to come? Most likely.

To that anonymous voice from fifteen years ago: I am listening now. I finally understand that the question wasn't about the "wanting" of a career or a prize—it was about the "wanting" of a soul that didn't have to be its own shield.

I cannot go back to that crossroads. I cannot trade my "Strength" back for "Silliness." But I can finally acknowledge the girl I left behind there. I can honor the part of me that is tired of being the anchor. And in that honesty, perhaps, I can finally begin to find a way to be soft again, even if it is only in the quiet spaces of my own mind.

Reflection for the Reader:

Is the "Strength" the world admires in you something you chose, or something you were forced to build because you weren't protected? Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is admit that we’re tired of being the strong one.