Letters Under the Door
I’ve started to notice a pattern in myself that traces all the way back to childhood. When I was young, I felt invisible in my own home—not ignored outright, but quietly dismissed. My mom had a close friend she spent so much time laughing with, confiding in. I remember feeling jealous, but it wasn’t really about the friend. It was about belonging. I wanted to be seen like that. I wanted to be chosen.
Back then, I wrote letters. I’d slip them under her bedroom door at night, hoping she’d finally understand what I couldn’t say out loud: “Please notice me. Please don’t leave me outside of you.”
But I need to be honest—I didn’t only write. When tenderness didn’t work, I reached for fire. I threw tantrums. I slammed doors, snapped, raised my voice. Not because I wanted chaos, but because quiet pain started to burn. If they couldn’t hear my soft knock, I’d make sure they heard my fists.
Now I’m 28, and I still write those letters—just digitally. Long texts. Explanations. Emotional essays. And when those don’t work, I storm. People think I want to argue, but I don’t. I want to be gathered. I want someone to open the door without making me beg at it.
I’m beginning to understand: I’ve never wanted to be right. I’ve always wanted to be received. Maybe healing isn’t about silencing my letters or my fire. Maybe it’s about finding someone who answers the knock before I have to burn.
It’s not anger I lead with—it’s fear. Fear of being replaced. Fear of not being enough to hold someone’s gaze. And deep down, I think I still believe that if I can just put the right words together, someone will finally say, “I hear you. I’m here.”
I’m trying to unlearn that love shouldn’t have to be written to be felt. That I don’t always have to explain myself perfectly to deserve softness. Maybe the real healing is learning how to speak before the door closes. Or better yet, choosing people who keep it open.
Back then, I wrote letters. I’d slip them under her bedroom door at night, hoping she’d finally understand what I couldn’t say out loud: “Please notice me. Please don’t leave me outside of you.”
But I need to be honest—I didn’t only write. When tenderness didn’t work, I reached for fire. I threw tantrums. I slammed doors, snapped, raised my voice. Not because I wanted chaos, but because quiet pain started to burn. If they couldn’t hear my soft knock, I’d make sure they heard my fists.
Now I’m 28, and I still write those letters—just digitally. Long texts. Explanations. Emotional essays. And when those don’t work, I storm. People think I want to argue, but I don’t. I want to be gathered. I want someone to open the door without making me beg at it.
I’m beginning to understand: I’ve never wanted to be right. I’ve always wanted to be received. Maybe healing isn’t about silencing my letters or my fire. Maybe it’s about finding someone who answers the knock before I have to burn.
It’s not anger I lead with—it’s fear. Fear of being replaced. Fear of not being enough to hold someone’s gaze. And deep down, I think I still believe that if I can just put the right words together, someone will finally say, “I hear you. I’m here.”
I’m trying to unlearn that love shouldn’t have to be written to be felt. That I don’t always have to explain myself perfectly to deserve softness. Maybe the real healing is learning how to speak before the door closes. Or better yet, choosing people who keep it open.
26-30, F
