I learned early
how to make myself smaller
so others wouldn’t feel exposed.
I learned how to bow
in rooms that never earned it.
That version of me is finished.
I lowered my voice
so nobody felt challenged.
I carried conversations
that never carried me back.
I stayed polite in tight spaces
that fed on restraint.
I paid admission
with my own silence.
That wasn’t belonging.
That was survival.
I won’t fold my spine
to fit your limits.
I won’t apologize
for standing upright.
I don’t bow anymore.
I don’t cut myself down
for rooms that refuse to grow.
I take air.
I take space.
I take what I earned
without asking.
If my presence
unsettles you,
that’s not something
I need to fix.
I carried your comfort
like it was my responsibility.
I softened my truth
so no one else had to change.
You called it confidence
when you talked over me.
You called me difficult
when I stopped agreeing.
Now the balance has shifted.
And you feel it.
I don’t negotiate my worth.
I don’t wait to be respected.
If I outgrow the room,
I leave it.
I don’t bow anymore.
I don’t lower myself
for stagnant thinking.
I stand exactly
where I am.
If you can’t meet me
eye to eye,
you don’t walk with me.
This isn’t ego.
It’s alignment.
No more shrinking.
No more softening.
No more apologies
for my size.
I rise,
or I exit.
Those are the terms.
The old life
doesn’t recognize me anymore.