You Were Never Cold

You were never cold.

It just looked that way because you were wrapped in layers—layers of silence, of survival, of having to be okay when you weren’t. You learned to keep your warmth tucked deep inside because the world didn’t feel safe enough to let it out. And when no one offered to help you peel those layers away, you forgot what your own skin felt like.

You weren’t born guarded. You became that way. Out of necessity. Out of protection.

Each layer told a story: the one where you were too much, the one where you weren’t enough, the one where no one came when you needed them, so you stopped needing.

But underneath it all, you were still in there—soft, warm, radiant.

That version of you didn’t disappear. She just got hidden.

And maybe now, slowly, you’re learning to take those layers off. To stop apologising for your warmth. To stop mistaking numbness for strength. To let someone reach for you without recoiling. To reach for yourself without shame.

Because you were never cold. You were just protecting something precious.

And now, that something is finally safe to come out.