They called me the “angry daughter.”
But I was also the daughter who had to wipe her own tears
and keep going like everything was just fine.
I was the daughter who never talked much about what I was going through,
because I didn’t want to bother anyone
or make people worry about me.

I stayed quiet.
Held all my feelings inside
just so no one could see how much I was really struggling.
I was the daughter who had to stay strong—
the one who had to figure everything out on her own
until I forgot how to ask for help.

I had to become my own support.
My own comfort.
Because I felt like no one else could really understand me.
And no one really cared enough to try.

I was the daughter they expected to be the strong one all the time,
so I played that part perfectly.
Even when all I wanted was for someone to hold me for a little while,
to tell me I didn’t always have to pretend.
That I didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world just to be loved.

I wonder how different it would’ve been
if someone had just told me
that I didn’t have to face it all alone.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt so empty,
trying to figure out everything on my own.

They called me dramatic
when I finally broke down—
but they forgot that even the strongest bridges collapse
when they carry too much for too long.

They called me rebellious
when all I ever wanted was to be heard
without being dismissed.
To be seen without being judged.

And now...
I’m learning how to walk away.

That kind of walking away
that isn’t about running or revenge,
but about choosing peace
after years of swallowing chaos.
It’s the kind of walking away
where I finally say:

Enough is enough.

Enough for the times I felt neglected.
Enough for the moments I shrank myself
just to be acceptable.
You only saw me when I was useful.
When I served, when I smiled, when I stayed silent.

But when I failed—
I became your scapegoat.
You blamed me,
not for the action,
but for who you decided I was because of it.
You turned one mistake
into my entire identity.

You didn’t give me space to grow.
You gave me a cage.
And now, I’ve found the key.

I am walking away.
Not because I hate you,
but because I’ve finally learned to love myself
more than your approval.

This is not betrayal.
This is survival.
This is healing.
This is me
reclaiming my voice,
my peace,
and everything I was forced to bury
just to belong.

And maybe—just maybe—
if you ever wonder why I stayed away,
it’s because being close to you
meant losing myself.

Not anymore.