Bend, Don’t Break

Look on the bright side, they say.
But sometimes, the light feels too far away.
Still—I stand back up.
Push back.
Fight.
Not to win every time, but to remember that I can.

I don’t want to take anything that isn’t mine.
I want to earn my place.
To move forward because I’ve done the work.
Because I’ve made a difference.
Because I’ve cared.

I want to protect people.
Not expose them.
I don’t want anyone to worry about what they say around me.
I won’t share it—unless I feel threatened.
But I notice something:
People often feel the need to justify themselves.
To explain.
To defend.

Is it me?
Are my questions too sharp?
Too pointed?

It’s almost like I need to learn a new language.
One that helps me ask without alarming.
One that helps me respond without escalating.
I’m playing fortune teller—trying to predict the right words to control the moment.

My partner is trusting.
They brought someone new by the house.
And I flinched.
Not because we live in a mansion.
Not because there’s anything to steal.
But because I don’t want to be put in a position where safety feels compromised.

I want to use my powers for good.
But what are my powers?

Maybe it’s this:
The ability to ask questions.
To seek truth.
To answer simply.
To protect.

I study successful people.
Not to envy them, but to understand them.
What makes them rise?
What makes them steady?

I worry I’m too slow.
That I focus on the details and miss the big picture.
But maybe that’s my strength.
Maybe working outward from the small things is how I build something lasting.

I want to do the right thing.
To bend, not break.
To know the difference between sympathy and empathy.
To take advantage of the opportunities that come my way.

Because everything matters to me.
And maybe that’s the challenge.
I care so much, I forget to edit.
To filter.
To soften.

But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe caring too much is better than not caring at all.