They called me harsh. But I never was.

Maybe I’ve changed. Or maybe I was never allowed to be who I really was.
My whole life, people told me I was too much. Too blunt. Too intense. Too direct. Someone you’d rather avoid than understand.

And for a long time, I believed them. Not because it felt true, but because no one ever bothered to really see me.

Until I met Mart. Until someone stayed, even when I was too quiet or too sharp. Until someone said: “You’re not harsh; you’re real.” And for the first time, I dared to ask: What if they were wrong about me? What if I was just… misunderstood?


I was a sensitive child. But there was no space for that at home. My mother couldn’t hold it. Couldn’t meet it. She found me difficult. Intense. Too loud. Too honest. Too something.
So I learned to adapt. Not by softening, but by sharpening. Not by breaking down, but by defending myself. Not by being fragile, but by staying alert.
I didn’t become harsh out of nowhere. I was called harsh, because I had to find ways to survive.
And that label stuck. With others. With myself.

But now I see it differently. Now I know I was never cold. I was someone with a nervous system that never shuts off. Someone who feels everything, but is rarely believed.
Someone who had to survive in a world that could never hold her as she was.

So I’m saying it now.
For me. And for anyone who’s been mislabeled:



1. I speak directly and people find that hard

I don’t sugarcoat things. Not because I want to hurt anyone, but because I can’t stand pretending. I see things clearly, and I feel a deep need to name them. Without filters. Without delay.
Because it hurts me more to stay silent than to speak the truth.
But in this world, honesty isn’t valued.
Niceness is. Politeness is. Surface-level smiles are.

They confuse clarity with cruelty.




2. I had to protect myself

I didn’t grow up in softness. I didn’t have a home where I could unfold safely. Everything around me was too loud, too fast, too much. So I became sharp. Guarded. Ready. Because that’s what survival demanded.
I learned to speak before I was swallowed.
To defend before I disappeared.

They saw the armor, but never the wounds that made it necessary.




3. I feel everything, I just don’t show it like they expect

My sensitivity isn’t delicate. It’s massive. It’s a quiet storm under my skin. I don’t always cry. I often stay calm. Not because I’m numb, but because if I let it all out, I’d collapse.
So I stay still. I get quiet. I speak briefly.
And people assume I don’t feel anything.

They confuse regulation with indifference.





4. I say what others try to ignore

I was never taught to play along. So when I feel tension, I name it.
When something’s wrong, I bring it up. Not to create conflict, but because the silence feels unbearable.
I don’t know how to keep pretending when something’s not real.

They call me harsh because I disturb the illusion.
Because I speak the things they’d rather avoid.





5. I don’t fit into the picture and that makes people uncomfortable

I don’t live the way I’m “supposed” to. I don’t chase the same things. I don’t want the same life. And that challenges people. Because if someone like me exists, maybe their version of “normal” isn’t so solid after all.

They call me radical, difficult, too much.. But what they really mean is: you make me question my world.




And my boyfriend? He sees all of it. He doesn’t flinch when I speak my truth. He hears me. He stays. He says: “You’re not harsh. You’re deep.” And maybe that’s all I ever needed.


I was never a cold person. I was a person without a mirror. No one ever reflected me back to myself with love, or even understanding. And now that I’m finally beginning to believe it wasn’t my fault, I want to hold onto that truth.

For myself. For the girl I used to be.
For anyone who’s been called “too much” when they were simply real.

You were never too intense.
You were just too honest for a world that only accepts whispers.