Lately, I've been gentle with myself, taking the time to meet the parts of me I've been at war with. The other day, I sat with the version of me that felt utterly alone. I let her express herself freely – yelling, crying, releasing all the emotions she'd been holding inside. I didn't rush her or tell her to be strong. Instead, I reminded her that she deserves warm words, soft arms, a safe space, and undivided love. Earlier this week, I had a heartfelt conversation with the version of me that savors solitude. We watched the sunset together, and I marveled at the childlike curiosity reflected in her eyes. Her smiles were contagious, and despite the broken pieces that pierced her skin, she exuded confidence. Yet nobody knows that she cries secretly. Yesterday, I met the quieter version of me – the one who tells many stories but rarely shares her own. I listened intently as she whispered her thoughts, and I listened even more closely to her silence. ...
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