A Thousand Quiet Deaths

There is a younger version of them who weeps to be seen, known, and loved—

not only for the bright spots they carried,

but for the shadows that lived within.

A younger version who ached to be held,

who longed for connection,

for a place in their parents’ lives where they might finally belong.

They spent their childhood in solitude—

radiant, creative, struck with brilliance—

yet always alone.

No one knew, not even their younger self,

how desperately they needed someone to look into their eyes and say:

I choose you.

I love you.

You are mine.

That child grew into an angry adolescent who raged,

who turned their back and ran.

They built walls,

shut out the pain,

because that was all they knew.

They quietly died a thousand deaths

waiting to be seen and held—

a peace they would never know

from the people they needed most.

Out of that grief,

they forged strength.

An untamed and relentless fire that kept everyone away.

The pain of not being chosen was too heavy to bear.

And people did exactly what they feared—

they saw their pain,

their rage,

their brazen defiance,

and they turned on their heels.

No one asked, Why are you so angry?

They just left them, again,

in their isolation.

So their creativity dimmed.

Their soul caged itself in a darkness no one could touch.

They conformed to standards that never fit,

chose paths that weren’t theirs

in the desperate hope of being chosen.

Every decision laced with desperation and longing.

They sold themself to the lowest bidder.

They accepted treatment that was deplorable, deviant.

They were preyed upon by the broken.

They accepted the only kind of love they had known in their younger years—

absent of connection,

absent of being seen or heard,

absent of being held in their darkest moments.

And so the cycle continued.

The years passed.

The mistakes repeated in different forms.

But the demon remained—

not a ghost, but something with malice.

They carried an unquenchable thirst,

yet chose to remain in deserts

because the barrenness felt like home.

And still, to the younger versions of them—

the ones who survived out of spite,

who ached and clawed and cried—

they speak now:

You never deserved the weight you carried.

But I am proud of you.

In a world so fierce,

so destructive,

they stayed warm.

They stayed kind.

They looked at the wreckage left behind and they healed.

They rediscovered their creativity,

that wild spark of fire,

their relentless and unwavering love.

The hand they were dealt was unkind,

but they became a warrior—

a beacon for the lost,

a light against the dark.

They are more than enough.

They are strength.

They are kindness.

They are the love they have always longed for.

And that younger version of them—

the one who wept, who ached to be chosen—

can finally rest.

They were never forgotten.

And now, they are free.

A Love note from Lauren

This shit is hard and fucking painful, so to anyone who is walking the path of reparenting themselves—I see you, and I am proud of you.

It takes a rare kind of strength, an unshakable courage, to face the wounds you never asked for and still choose to heal them. You deserve that healing. Every younger version of you deserves it.

Keep moving forward, even when the weight feels heavy. Keep shaping yourself into the person you have always longed to be, despite the ache of what was lost.

You are not alone.

We walk this road together—

step by step, breath by breath.

This is more than healing.

This is our sacred rebellion.