I wish someone asked me why

If they ever thought, what really made me like that

People are quick to notice change.

They point out the tone in my voice, the sharpness in my words, the way I pull away or react too strongly. They ask, “Why are you like that?” as if the question itself is an accusation. As if I woke up one morning and chose to be this way.

But no one really asks why.

No one asks what made me like this. What shaped the pauses in my speech. What taught my heart to flinch before it trusts. They complain. They correct. They raise their voices. And somehow, they convince themselves that I enjoy being misunderstood.

I don’t.

I wish someone asked me why I go quiet.

Why certain words hurt more than others. Why I sometimes say the wrong thing even when my intentions are soft.

Why I became someone they call “too much” or “too difficult.”

Because the truth is, people are not born this way.

They are made that way by the surroundings. By the tone of voices they grew up with. By the way love was given or withheld. By the way mistakes were handled, with understanding or with shame. No one wakes up broken. They are shaped slowly, quietly, over time.

They are formed by being blamed instead of understood. By being corrected when they needed comfort. By being told what they did wrong instead of being asked what hurt them. And then people wonder why they flinch at questions, why their guard is always up, why their silence feels louder than their words.

They are formed through repetition. Through experiences that teach the brain what to expect from people. Through moments that wire fear, hesitation, or defensiveness into the nervous system. The personality people criticize is often just a coping mechanism that worked once , and never got the chance to heal.

But no one understands. No one cares.

They just have a problem with how I behave, but don’t they know I wasn’t always like that. They made me this way. And I don’t like it. But sometimes you just get used to certain things, and even your own self, the one you absolutely hate.

And the worst part is how people think it’s all a choice. As if I wake up every morning deciding how my reactions will twist themselves, or how my voice will shake at the smallest things. I try, I try to be easier, softer, better, but sometimes my mind moves faster than I can control, sometimes my emotions spill out before I can hold them in. It’s not intentional, it’s not dramatic, it’s not some performance. It’s just… me, stitched together by habits I never asked for. And no matter how aware I am of it, no matter how much I wish I could change the way I am, it doesn’t always work that way.

I wish someone asked me why, but maybe even I don’t know anymore. Maybe it’s all mixed up now, the things they said, the things I tried to forget, the parts of me I outgrew and the parts that refused to leave. Sometimes I think I’m getting better, and then one small thing snaps something inside me and I’m back to being… whatever this is. I try to understand myself, but it’s like holding water in my hands, it slips, it spills, it refuses to stay in one shape long enough for me to explain it. So when people ask what’s wrong, I just stare, because how do I answer a question I’ve been trying to ask myself for years? I wish someone asked me why, maybe then I’d finally try to find the answer too.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most, wanting so badly to fix myself and not knowing where to even begin. I keep trying to untangle everything inside me, but the knots just get tighter the more I pull. Some days I feel like I’m finally getting a grip on things, and other days it’s like I’m slipping right back into the same patterns I swore I’d outgrow. It’s confusing, it’s exhausting, it’s like fighting something I can’t even see. I want to be better, I really do, but sometimes it feels like I’m made of habits and memories I never chose, and no matter how much I push or try or promise myself I’ll change, I end up stuck in the same place, wanting, trying, failing, trying again. I guess that’s the part no one understands… how much I want to fix it, and how much it hurts that I just can’t.

And maybe that’s the whole point of it — if they asked why. If they ever stopped to think about how their words landed, how their anger shaped me, how their silence carved itself into my bones. If they treated me gently, if they listened, if they gave me a childhood that didn’t feel like walking on eggshells, maybe I wouldn’t be this version of myself. Maybe I’d trust easier, speak softer, breathe without waiting for something to go wrong. I wasn’t born like this. I became this way because of the way they loved me, or the way they didn’t. And if they ever bothered to ask why, they’d realize the answer has always led back to them.

Source: Medium/Ayesha Gohar

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