i grew up. you just never noticed.

Mood : 2.5/10

Some days, it feels like I’m dragging my body through a life I didn’t ask for. Not because I hate living. But because I’m tired of constantly explaining why I live the way I do. I wake up with this weight in my chest—like no matter how far I’ve come, someone, somewhere is still disappointed in me. Usually, it’s him. My dad.

He doesn’t have to say much. Just a sentence, or even silence, and I already feel the sting. He doesn't see me—not the real me, not the woman I’ve grown into. Just the idea of who I should’ve been. And that hurts more than anything. Because all my life, I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. To be good. To be the version he could look at and say, “That’s my daughter. I’m proud of her.” But that day never came. And maybe it never will.

Instead, he sends me a message with a link to a video I posted on TikTok—just a silly clip from my trip to Bangkok. I was laughing in it. Happy. Alive. Free. And what does he say? “Remember God. Cover your body.” That’s it. No “You’re doing well.” No “I’m glad you’re safe.” Just that. Like that’s all I am. Skin. Shame. A walking sin in his eyes. And I hate that I let it get to me. I hate that even after all this time, his words still find a way to crawl under my skin and make me feel small again.

It’s like he doesn’t even try to see who I am now. I’m not a teenager rebelling for fun. I’m a grown woman figuring shit out on her own. I plan my travels. I take care of myself. I work, I survive, I fight for peace in my own head. And yet, none of that matters because in his eyes, I’m not covered enough. Not afraid enough. Not good enough.

And the worst part is—I used to believe it. I used to think maybe he was right. That maybe if I just tried a little harder, bent a little more, I could fit into the mold he built for me. I wore the hijab. I dressed “properly.” I followed the rules. And slowly, I disappeared. Piece by piece, I lost the voice in my head that said, “But what about you?” I silenced her. Over and over again. Because I thought that’s what being good meant—being quiet, obedient, small.

But something changed. I don’t even know when exactly, but I woke up one day and I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t pretend. I couldn’t keep performing a version of myself just to make someone else comfortable. I was tired. And tired people either break, or they break free. I chose the second.

I started doing what felt right for me. I stopped trying to please someone who never saw me to begin with. I took off the hijab, not out of hate, not out of rebellion—but because I wanted to see myself again. To feel the sun on my skin. To breathe without guilt. I wore what made me feel like me. And I traveled. I went places. I met strangers who were kinder to me in one moment than people I’ve known my whole life. I saw the world not through shame, but through wonder. And for once, I felt free.

Not because I was doing something bold. But because I was finally honest. Honest about what I want. Who I am. What I believe. I still believe in God. I still believe in being kind. In being good. I just don’t believe in sacrificing myself to meet someone else’s definition of those things.

And I’m not sorry for that anymore.

I’m not sorry that I choose honesty over obedience. I’m not sorry that I love myself more than I crave approval. I’m not sorry that I’m building a life that feels mine, even if it doesn’t make sense to people who were never willing to understand me. I used to fear being alone in this, but now? I’ve never been more surrounded by love.

Because now, I have people around me who see me. Who don’t just tolerate me—they embrace me. I never knew acceptance like this growing up. I never knew what it felt like to be held in my truth, not questioned for it. I’ve had strangers cheer me on in ways my own blood never could. And that used to hurt. It still does, sometimes. But mostly, it just shows me that love doesn’t have to be earned through suffering. It can come freely. Gently. Loudly, even.

So no—I won’t reply to his message. Not because I’m afraid. But because I’m done handing out pieces of myself to people who only want to fix me. I don’t need to defend my choices. I don’t need to explain my joy. If he can’t see that his girl is out there—growing, thriving, healing—then that’s on him. Not me.

And yes, it’s sad. It’s heartbreaking to realize your own father doesn’t recognize the woman you’ve become. But it’s not my job to teach him how to love me. It’s not my responsibility to shrink myself just so he can feel in control. I’ve put him on a pedestal too many times before, and all it did was leave me hurt. Confused. Angry at myself for still hoping he'd meet me where I am.

But now, I don’t wait for that anymore.

If one day I get married and it’s just me and my partner, no family, no crowd, no blessing—I’ll still be okay. Because I’ll know that I didn’t trade myself for a seat at someone else’s table. I didn’t perform. I didn’t beg. I showed up as myself, and that is more than enough.

I love where I am now. I love that I’m no longer afraid to choose myself. My life might not be perfect, but at least it’s mine. And that alone is sacred.

I don’t carry hatred in my heart. I still love him, in whatever quiet way I can. But I love myself more. That’s not arrogance. That’s survival. That’s growth. That’s healing.

I’m no longer lost. I’m just not walking the path he wanted for me. And that’s okay. Because this path? It feels right. It feels real. It feels like home.

So judge me all you want. Misunderstand me. Call me whatever name helps you sleep at night. But just know—I’m not disappearing. I’m not ashamed. I’m not yours to mold.

I am mine. Fully. Finally. And I’m not going back.