Maybe I was born to understand, never to be understood.
“She’s just exhausted from work,” father whispered to me right after my mother finished yelling at me.
“I know. I understand,” I answered as I wiped my tears.
“Your brother’s still young, he’ll get it soon!” mother exclaimed when I complained about being tired of teaching my brother.
“Okay. I understand,” I replied as I gazed at my unfinished school works.
“I’m so sorry, I can’t finish my part today, I have important things to do,” my group mate replied after I asked her about her unfinished part in our group paper.
“I understand,” I replied. . . again.
As a kid, I was taught to always put myself in others’ shoes. To always look through their perspective. Maybe their situation is easy for me, but how about for them, right?
I understand. It’s okay, I understand. I often hear those words coming from my mouth. And when I say often, I mean a lot of times, as in a lot.
Ever since, I learned to suppress my emotions and everything that I want to say; covered it with a smile and the word “I understand, it’s okay.”
“That’s fine, I understand,” I said as I clenched my fist. What about me? When will someone understand me? When will someone know that like them, I also go through a lot of obstacles in my life?
But of course I won’t tell them that, because I once did, and it’s not recommended, to be honest.
I fear that if I don’t understand everything and everyone all at once, I’ll lose them, I’ll lose myself, and I’ll lose my purpose.
Maybe, I was born to look deeper at everyone, in every situation. Maybe, I was born to put myself in everyone’s shoes so I’ll know their struggles.
Maybe I was born to listen and to see the struggles of people.
Born to listen. . . never to be listened to.
Born to see people’s struggles and improvements. . . but never to be seen.
