The Bitterness I Almost Became

—or, the taste I carried too long

Bitterness is clever.
It doesn’t scream—it simmers.
It disguises itself as discernment, as wisdom, as self-protection.

I almost became it.
Not because I wanted to, but because it felt safer than softness.
Safer than hope.

There were days I could feel it rising—behind my tongue, in my chest, in the way I looked at people who hadn’t hurt me but reminded me of those who had.
I wore it like armor.
I called it clarity.

Bitterness felt like control.
Like I could rewrite the story by refusing to forgive.
But it also made me brittle.
I couldn’t laugh without suspicion.
I couldn’t love without keeping score.

I didn’t choose joy. Not exactly.
I chose breath.
I chose not to become what hurt me.

And even now, I taste it sometimes.
But I spit it out before it settles.

There’s a kind of grief in letting go of bitterness.
It means admitting how long you carried it.
How familiar it became.
How much it shaped your voice, your posture, your sense of justice.

But there’s also relief.
Like unclenching a jaw you didn’t know was tight.
Like stepping into a room where the air is finally clean.

I didn’t become bitterness.
But I honor the part of me that almost did.
She was trying to survive.
She just didn’t know softness could be armor too.