It Was Never Her Fault
She once told me she was tired—not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but the kind that settles deep in the soul. The kind that comes from hearing the same words over and over again until they start to feel like truth.
They used to tell her, “You can’t do anything… you don’t even know how to speak… you won’t make it.” At first, she would ignore them. Then she would question them. And eventually, she began to believe them.
One day, she asked me something I still cannot forget:
“Tell me honestly… what is my fault?”
I had no answer. Because the truth was, there was no fault to name.
She did not choose the life she was born into. She did not choose the absence that shaped her childhood—the silence of a father she never knew, a presence she could never hold onto. She grew up watching others receive a kind of love and protection that always seemed just out of her reach.
And yet, she was the one made to feel incomplete.
What broke her the most was not the world outside—but the home within. When your own mother sees you as a failure before you even begin, it leaves a mark no one else can see. She told me how those words followed her everywhere, how they slowly turned into her own inner voice.
Still, she tried.
She studied hard. She carried responsibilities, respected everyone, did everything she thought would make her worthy. But no matter how much she did, it never seemed to change anything.
Others were appreciated without effort.
She was overlooked despite effort.
And slowly, she began to disappear within herself.
She stopped defending her worth. She stopped expecting kindness. She even started believing that maybe she really was the problem.
But every now and then, in between her pain, she would whisper something different:
“What if it was never my fault?”
She told me about her present too—how even now, at twenties, she feels judged for things she never chose. How proposals come, but never the ones that reflect her education, her dignity, her worth. How she is reduced to labels—orphan, fatherless—as if her entire existence can be summarized in a single absence.
She once said, “I didn’t even see my father when I opened my eyes for the first time… so tell me, how is that my fault?”
I remember the silence that followed. It was heavy. Unfair.
Her thoughts are often tangled now. She says her mind feels restless, exhausted, searching for peace it cannot find. She wants independence, a life of her own—but years of being told “you can’t” have made even her dreams feel uncertain.
And yet… she is still standing.
That is what people don’t see.
They don’t see the strength it takes to survive in a place where you are constantly made to feel small. They don’t see the courage it takes to keep going when even love feels conditional.
They only see what is missing.
They never see what she carries.
If you ask me about her, I will tell you this:
She is not weak.
She is not incapable.
She is not what they said she is.
She is someone who was never given the chance to believe in herself
and still, somehow, she is trying.
And maybe one day, she will stop asking, “What is my fault?”
and finally understand the truth that was always hers:
It was never her fault.............!
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