There was a time I used to think peace was something you stumbled upon.
A lucky moment of quiet. A reward after struggle. A fleeting feeling found in people, or places, or the right words at the right time. But now I know better. Peace is not accidental. It is cultivated. And once you have tasted true peace, the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that feels like home, you learn to protect it with everything you have.
I used to pray for this version of me. The one who understands that calm is sacred. That stillness is strength. That joy can be soft but unshakable.
I worked hard to become her.
Through inner work. Through facing uncomfortable truths. Through sitting with wounds I wanted to ignore. Through unlearning the toxic patterns that once felt like love. I have cried through healing. I have let go of stories I once clung to for survival. And I have walked away from what I once begged to stay.
So no, do not come and disrupt what I have fought so hard to rebuild simply because you are unwilling to face your own reflection.
I am not here to be an emotional cushion. I am not your therapist. I am not your savior. I am not a container for pain you refuse to name. I am not responsible for your triggers, your unhealed wounds, or the chaos you keep recycling in the name of survival. Especially when you have no intention of changing.
I say this without malice just truth.
If you are still at war with yourself, I honor your path. But I cannot let you turn my peace into a battlefield. I will not sacrifice my healing to accommodate your refusal to grow.
Healing is your job. Growth is your responsibility. You get to decide whether to stay where you are or rise into who you are meant to be. But you do not get to drag people down with you simply because you are not ready to rise.
I have learned the hard way that protecting my peace is not selfish. It is sacred. It is survival. It is choosing to no longer betray myself for the sake of connection. It is choosing softness for myself in a world that constantly demands hardness. It is saying, I love you, but I love me too.
I have spent too long carrying what was never mine. Guilt. Shame. Other people’s expectations. Their disappointments. Their silence. Their storms. And I am done.
If your presence feels heavy, it is likely because you are still avoiding your truth. And I will not carry the weight of someone else’s denial. Not anymore.
The peace I now hold is a result of conscious, sometimes painful choices. To pause instead of react. To walk away instead of engage. To choose rest over proving my worth. To speak up when something hurts. To stop explaining my boundaries to people who benefit from crossing them.
I do not owe access to anyone who cannot respect the calm I have earned.
Love does not require losing yourself. Compassion does not mean you must burn out to keep others warm. And forgiveness does not mean allowing repeated harm.
So I will say this with full clarity and unwavering softness:
Do the work. Or keep your distance.
I will always root for your healing, but not at the expense of mine.
Love,
Umi
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