Speaking My Pain Into a Room That Won't Listen

There’s a certain kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from being surrounded by people—your own family—and still feeling like you’re yelling into a void. I’ve tried to explain how I feel, more times than I can count. I’ve stood right in front of the people who say they love me and tried to open up, to share my truth, only to be cut off, dismissed, talked over—or completely unheard altogether.

I’ve been carrying so much on my mind. There’s a storm inside me—grief that lingers in my bones, loneliness that creeps into even the loudest moments, and physical pain that doesn’t scream, but quietly wears me down every day. My health issues aren’t urgent enough to alarm anyone, but they’re there. Real. Growing. Threatening. And yet, when I try to express any of it, it feels like I’m talking to a wall.

Add to that the stress of bills and the constant weight of financial pressure. It’s heavy. It’s exhausting. And it never lets up. When the shows I used to pour my heart and soul into all came to a halt nearly two years ago, a part of me shut down too. Promoting those shows wasn’t just something I did—it was something I lived for. It gave me purpose. It gave me a reason to keep pushing. Without it, the silence got louder… and the depression started to dig deeper.

Just because I laugh… just because I smile or seem happy… doesn’t mean that I truly am. Most days, I’m not. I’ve just learned how to wear the mask well, because it’s easier than trying to explain the pain that no one seems to want to hear.

Broken promises hurt more than people realize. And when I feel like my words fall flat or I’ll be interrupted or misunderstood, I stop trying to speak them at all. Instead, I turn to the one place I’ve always felt heard—music. So if you want to understand what I’m feeling, pay attention to the music I listen to. Because when I feel voiceless, the lyrics say everything I can’t.

I want to be seen. Not just noticed in passing, but really seen. I want someone to sit with me long enough to hear the words I haven’t been able to say out loud until now. I want someone to ask how I’m doing—and mean it. Not just as a habit. Not just to be polite. I want someone to sit across from me and stay there.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made it too easy for people to look the other way. I don’t scream or demand attention. I try to explain gently. I try not to burden anyone. But my kindness has started to feel like a curse when it means I’m constantly overlooked.

And what hurts even more is the silence from someone I miss deeply—my oldest son. He’s grown now, with his own life, and I understand that. I know the world pulls him in a hundred directions. But I still ache every time I realize I’m the one who always has to text first. I wait, quietly hoping for a message, a visit, something that tells me he’s thinking of me too. But most days, the silence stretches on, and I swallow that ache like I’ve learned to do with everything else.

Sometimes, I wonder if he’s embarrassed of me… or if I did something to push him away without realizing it. I keep replaying moments in my head, trying to figure out what changed. What I did—or didn’t do—that made him only show up for Christmas… and if I’m lucky, maybe a surprise visit. That kind of silence echoes louder than words ever could. I did get to see him for about an hour in April—because he was dropping his wife off at her parents’ house. And while I was grateful for that hour, it wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel like he came to see me.

I miss my daughter too. She moved three hours away, and yes—we talk every day. But it’s not like it used to be. We don’t get those one-on-one conversations anymore. Now, the visits are short and spread out, and I get it—she has a life too. But it still hurts. I miss being close in the way only a mother and daughter can be.

My youngest sons… I’m around them every day. They’ve seen me cry, seen me break, and they’ve seen me try to hold it all together. But when I try to tell them that I’m getting older, that I can’t do the things I used to because it physically hurts or I’m simply exhausted, they laugh it off. “You’re not old,” they say—like they don’t want to accept it, or maybe don’t know how to. But I feel it. I feel the wear and tear of time catching up with me. And when I try to speak on it, again—I’m not really heard.

To my children:

I love all four of you more than you could ever imagine. You are my world. And I am so happy for each of you—for the lives you’re building, for the strength you carry, for the beautiful people you’re becoming. But one day, I won’t be here anymore. One day, you’ll look for my voice and only hear echoes. That text you send, or the call you make, it could become a beautiful memory. A reminder that I was here. That I loved you deeply, unconditionally, every single day of your lives. I know this because I feel this everyday with my mom and dad. I wish I had a text or voice message from my dad. I am lucky that I can hear my mom's voice on a message and saved texts.

Please know this:

I am not writing this for anyone to feel bad. I am writing this because I need to get it off my chest. I need it out of me—so maybe I can breathe a little easier. Maybe someone will finally hear me—not just with their ears, but with their heart.

I now understand how my mom felt—how she sat by herself in the quiet, feeling forgotten. I remember the sadness in her eyes that she never spoke about. And the truth is, I don’t want to age like my mother did… alone.

I’m tired. Not just in my body, but in my heart. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t need anyone to fix it. I just want someone to really listen. To look me in the eyes and say, “I hear you. I’m here.” Because that, more than anything, would be enough.

A Quote to close:

“Sometimes the loudest cries come from the quietest people. And sometimes, the ones who always check on others are silently hoping someone will check on them.”