How do we cross the river that lies between hearing and understanding?
title credit by Hameeda Syed (@lonelydignity), quoted and story inspired from their article in @thequeermuslimproject ‘s instagram post on their letter to their father during IDAHOBIT.
I’ve spent years performing, not on stages, but in conversations, in eye contact, in silences that were too loud to ignore. I learned how to be agreeable, dependable, someone easy to love — just not entirely someone real. I carried a truth I didn’t know how to hold without trembling, so I tucked it beneath layers of charm and compliance, hoping no one would notice the parts of me that didn’t quite belong.
I didn’t just hide — I overcorrected. Smoothed the edges, silenced the questions, learned to mimic the kind of life I thought would keep me safe. And in that process, I became fluent in self-abandonment. I walked so far from myself that coming home now feels like navigating a city I used to live in, one where the streets look familiar, but I can’t remember how to get back to the door.
Religion was a pillar once. Until it became a weight. I prayed for clarity, for acceptance, for anything to quiet the ache that came from loving in a way I was told I shouldn’t. But shame has a way of hollowing out even the most sacred things, and eventually, I couldn’t tell if I was worshipping out of devotion or fear. So I stopped. Not out of anger, but exhaustion. I needed space to breathe, to ask questions that didn’t end in guilt. And sometimes, I still feel the echo of that absence — what used to be faith now replaced with a longing I don’t know how to name.
I’ve pushed away people who got too close — not because I didn’t want to be loved, but because I didn’t think I could sustain it. There’s a difference between being seen and being understood, and I’ve always feared the latter. What if someone reached for the real me and didn’t flinch — but I flinched first?
That’s the thing no one tells you about healing. It’s not about fixing yourself. It’s about unlearning the instinct to hide. It’s about standing by the river of all the things you’ve buried and whispering, maybe I’m still worthy of crossing. Maybe love isn’t something I have to earn through pretending. Maybe the people who left weren’t meant to understand. And maybe the ones who will, haven’t arrived yet.
So here I am — still performing sometimes, still scared often, but no longer willing to betray myself for the comfort of others. I don’t need the whole world to understand me. Just one person who will cross the river with me, without asking me to swim alone.
