I.3. The Illusion of Being Understood

There comes a point where you don't stop talking because you have nothing to say.

You stop because explaining yourself becomes exhausting.
Maybe that's what growing up has looked like for me recently. It's been a while since my last blog, but the only thing that has changed is my perspective.

My life isn't magically different, but my POV has widened. I've realized things I probably wouldn't have understood a year ago.

Lately, I've been thinking about one simple wish. I wish I had someone to share everything with. At some point, all you want is to pour your heart out. To say every single thing that's been sitting inside your head. But somehow, people turn your emotions into something you're supposed to defend.

You're "too sensitive."

"Too weak."

"Just looking for sympathy."

If it's your parents, they may tell you to be stronger.
If it's your friends, they'll encourage you because they genuinely believe in you.
Your batchmates might judge you without even knowing half the story.

One of the biggest realizations I've had recently is that being heard and being understood are two very different things.

Sometimes people listen to every word you say. They nod. They remember what you told them. You walk away thinking, "Finally, they get it." But then the same thing happens again. The same words are said. The same boundaries are crossed. That's when you realize they heard you, but they never truly understood you.

For the longest time, I thought the problem was that I hadn't found the right people. I believed that if I could explain myself better, choose better words, or find someone patient enough to listen, they'd finally understand what was happening inside my head.

But maybe that was the illusion all along.

Maybe the illusion isn't that people don't care.

Maybe the illusion is believing that another person can completely experience emotions they've never lived through.

Every person listens through the filter of their own life. They hear your words, but they interpret them using their own memories, fears, beliefs, and experiences. They understand the version of your story that makes sense to them, not necessarily the one you're trying to tell.
They will only focus on certain words which relate to their trauma, their wounds, their content moments; and rest of your words get blurred for them and all they would focus on how they got by things and assumingly how you would get hurt by it. Your point isn't considered unless someone really believes to hear someone else's pov finely.

Understanding isn't about hearing someone's words. It's about recognizing the emotions that gave birth to those words.

And somewhere in between all of that, you slowly stop talking. Not because you have nothing to say, but because explaining yourself starts feeling heavier than staying silent. When you're at your lowest, everything feels heavy. You begin questioning everything.

Sometimes it feels like giving up on everything you've worked for.
Sometimes you wonder why anything exists at all.

And sometimes you simply ask yourself, Is all of this really necessary?

Maybe those questions don't appear because we're weak. Maybe they appear because we're tired of carrying emotions that never seem to find the right destination.

One of the greatest lessons life taught me recently was to become my own companion. I always believed people should learn to enjoy their own company, but believing something and learning it the hard way are two completely different experiences.

The truth is, no one will ever understand your mind exactly the way you do. And that's okay..

One difficult realization I've had to accept is this: If no one can completely understand my mind, maybe I need to learn to understand it myself. Learning to sit with yourself is probably one of the healthiest relationships you'll ever build. Perhaps the illusion was believing that explaining ourselves is enough to be understood. Sometimes, words simply aren't enough. Not because talking is difficult. Because trusting someone is. Being heard isn't the same as being understood.

What if they use it against me?

What if my parents get worried?

What if they think less of me?

What if they don't understand?

Those questions stop more conversations than words ever could. Someone once told me something I'll probably remember for a long time.

"Go and tell your parents what you're going through. They're supposed to worry. You're their child."

That one sentence changed the way I looked at asking for help.

I genuinely believe every teenager and everyone in their early twenties needs to hear it. Turning eighteen doesn't suddenly make you emotionally independent. You're still learning how to navigate life, and no one expects you to have all the answers.
Becoming completely isolated isn't a sign of strength, nor is it an inspiring success story. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is admit that you need help.

But asking for help isn't always easy.

Sometimes your emotions become so overwhelming that it feels like there's a cage around your throat. You know exactly what you're feeling, yet the words refuse to come out.
Maybe you're afraid people will judge you.
Maybe you're afraid they'll try to fix you before they've even tried to understand you.

The truth is, not every conversation needs a solution.
Sometimes, all we really need is someone who listens.
Someone who doesn't interrupt.
Someone doesn't compare our pain to theirs.
Someone who simply lets us exist, exactly as we are.

But what if you don't have that person?

Write.

Write everything.

Write the things you're too embarrassed to say.

Write the thoughts that don't even make sense.

Write about the dream that scared you at 3 a.m.

Write about the conversation you wish had gone differently.

Write absolute nonsense if that's what your mind wants to write.

JUST WRITE.

Journaling isn't about producing beautiful pages. It's about emptying a mind that's carrying too much. Believe me, you'll probably forget half of what you wrote within a week. And that's exactly why it works. Your brain finally gets permission to stop holding onto every single thought. No one really cares what you journal every day. Well... unless you live with your family. And honestly, “Until you're someone big, your diary is just another notebook to everyone else”.

One day I woke up from a horrible dream. It felt so real that I couldn't shake the feeling even after opening my eyes. The first thing I did wasn't call someone. I grabbed my diary. I wrote every detail I could remember. Not because anyone would ever read it. But because writing it down made me feel like I had finally told someone. That's the strange comfort journaling gives you. Maybe that's all journaling really is. Not writing for the world. Not writing for your future self. Just reminding your own heart that someone listened. Even if that someone was you.

Maybe that's what I've been learning all along.

Perhaps the illusion was never that people don't care.

Perhaps the illusion was believing that someone else could completely understand a mind they've never lived inside.

Maybe being understood isn't about finding someone who perfectly translates every emotion inside your head.
Sometimes it's about finding the courage to understand yourself first.
But understanding yourself isn't as simple as it sounds. It means sitting with every unanswered question, every contradiction, every fear, and every emotion you've been trying to outrun.

Perhaps that's where THE NOISE WITHIN begins.