It’s easier to call someone “too much” than to ask why that “too” bothers us in the first place. Too loud, too quiet, too soft, too hard. We hand out these labels like they’re facts, when really they’re just reflections of what we’re comfortable with.

We like to believe we’re accepting. Open-minded. But only up to a point. Only as long as the other person stays within the lines we’ve drawn, lines we didn’t even question while drawing them.

A woman laughs too freely and suddenly she’s “too bold.” A man pauses, shows a crack in his voice, and he’s “not strong enough.” It’s strange how quickly humanity becomes a flaw when it doesn’t match the script.

And the worst part is, people learn.

They start adjusting without being told twice. They shrink where they should expand. They harden where they should feel. Not because they’re weak but because belonging has always come at a cost.

Bit by bit, they move further away from themselves, trying to meet a version of “acceptable” that keeps changing anyway.

Maybe that’s the real problem.

Not that people are too anything but that our tolerance has limits we don’t like to admit. And instead of widening them, we keep asking others to make themselves smaller, quieter, easier.

We don’t reject people.

We just don’t know how to sit with anything that doesn’t mirror what we already believe.

I want a love that would take a thousand bullets for me, but shows up as your hand gripping mine while crossing a road I’ve crossed alone a hundred times – and I swear I’d take every single shot before it ever reaches you.

They become quiet experts at holding things; expectations, pain, responsibilities that were never meant for their hands. And they hold them so carefully, so constantly, that one day they don’t even notice the weight anymore. It just becomes who they are.

Until it doesn’t.

Until their chest feels tight for no clear reason.

Until silence feels heavier than noise.

Until even small things begin to feel impossible, and they can’t explain why.

That’s the part no one taught them about –

that even the strongest hearts get tired,

that even the steadiest hands were never meant to hold everything forever.

And in those moments, it can feel confusing… because what they’re craving isn’t an ending.

It’s not escape.

It’s relief.

It’s softness.

It’s someone, somewhere, finally understanding without needing an explanation.

It’s a voice – maybe their own, maybe someone else’s saying:

you don’t have to keep doing this to prove anything.

you don’t have to carry what broke you.

you don’t have to stay strong in ways that are hurting you.

You are allowed to set things down, even if no one told you how.

You are allowed to rest before you fall apart.

You are allowed to choose yourself, even if it feels unfamiliar.

And maybe it will feel strange at first

like your hands don’t know where to go without the weight,

like your identity slips a little without the struggle.

But that doesn’t mean you’re losing yourself.

It means you’re finally meeting a version of you

that isn’t built on survival alone.

And that version?

They don’t need to carry everything to be worthy.

They just need to breathe.

Dear Noor,

i don’t know if nurses get letters

or if this will end up

folded in a pocket

that gets washed

and ruined

but i needed to put my name somewhere

that isn’t a chart

You keep calling me by it

even when i don’t answer right away

even when i pretend to be asleep

because being awake feels like

work.

I don’t know when you became

the person I wait for

not in a romantic way,

don’t flinch

but in the way a body learns

which footsteps don’t rush it.

You never promise me anything.

You never say this will work.

You say things like

“Let’s try,”

or

“I’ll be back in a bit,”

and somehow those are bigger

than hope.

I drop thing a lot now

Today it was water and two pills

You didn’t shout

Just looked at it

Then at me

Like we’d both decided

not to make a thing of it.

You never rush

which is strange

because everyone else is always rushing

towards something i’m apparently done with.

Sometimes i wonder

if you’re kind

or just practiced

I don’t mean that badly

I mean it honestly.

Do they tell you this part in training?

how being here makes you important

without you doing anything important.

There are hours when I hate you

a little or sometimes more

for leaving the room,

for having another patient,

for still having a life

that continues without my permission.

Then you come back

and I hate myself instead

for thinking care has to look like staying forever.

I am not ever getting better.

We both know that

but you make me feel

that I’m not alone while I slowly fade away.

If this is my last good day,

it won’t be because I was brave.

It’ll be because you treated me

like a person

even after my body stopped cooperating.

And started fighting the hands that healed.

If this isn’t the end,

then forget all of this.

Truly.

I don’t want to be remembered

as a lesson.

But if it is,

know this:

You didn’t save me.

You didn’t fail me either.

You did something harder.

You saw me

when there was nothing left to fix

and didn’t turn that into a reason

to look away.

Still here,

for now

Ahmad,

Stage 4 blood cancer.

Don’t praise my face

it came by fate,

but how my thoughts light up

how they surprise you straight.

Don’t curse my looks,

they’re not my fight,

tell me my words

were wrong last night.

Love what i’ve built,

correct what’s flawed,

see me becoming

don’t applaud the facade.

I tried writing a rhyming poem.

Would love critique and if anyone can suggest better extensions.

It won’t bloom tonight

but if you leave the soil now,

spring won’t ever know your name.

She dreams of him dreaming her.

And in that dream she feels safe.

Like all this time he was in love with her too.

She notices the tiniest things

the way he laughs too softly,

the way his hands move while talking,

the way his eyes pause on her

for a second too long

and she tells herself it means something

because it has to.

She waits for a message that never comes

wonders if he ever thinks of her,

And even knowing he probably doesn’t,

she can’t stop hoping,

can’t stop believing

that in some quiet moments,

he remembers her too.

And in some magical moment,

he will love her too.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

But it’s hers.

This tiny, impossible dream.

It’s hers.

And she holds it,

because it’s the only place

she’s ever been chosen.

I watch the world spin past me each night, while I learn how to walk in tiny steps.

Love yourself. Love your family. Let that be your anchor.

Don’t bend just to belong.

Don’t shrink your edges to make others comfortable.

If your soul feels edited, you’re in the wrong room.

Follow what keeps you awake at night – the good kind of awake.

Not applause. Not approval.

Just the quiet pull that feels like this is mine.

You don’t need to announce your worth.

Real value is calm. It doesn’t chase.

It grows, and people notice eventually – or they don’t, and you’re still fine.

Build something that sounds like you when no one is listening.

If you don’t know what makes you exceptional yet, keep moving anyway.

Motion teaches what thinking can’t.

Let your family stand behind you because they see the change,

not because you promised it,

but because you’re living it.

The right people will find you when you stop performing.

Dear those who feel invisible on Medium,

No one talks about how hard it is to keep writing when no one is reading. I have always loved reading and writing, but I joined medium because I wanted financial independence. I am struggling right now, and I want my medium account to grow fast enough to earn something from it.

The desperation is real.

I want this to work so badly that I spend hours researching and listening to people’s stories of success on Medium, even though my professional exams (finals) are just a month away.

And after all the research, the only answer I keep finding is:

Consistency.

But how am I supposed to stay consistent when all I feel is demotivation? My articles aren’t read, I get no claps, and no one follows me.

Writing in silence is exhausting.

If you are struggling the same way and somehow made it this far into my letter, I want you to walk alongside with me.

Instead of trying to grow alone, I want us to grow together. I want to have a connection on medium. A few friends or a small family would give me a reason to show up everyday.

When we aren’t getting public attention, we can be each other’s reason to keep going.

Here, I have a few ideas:

1.Same Title, Different Articles:

Everyone writes under the same title but takes it in their own direction. Readers love comparing perspectives.

2.Letters Exchange Series

We can select a topic: I write you a letter and you can reply. This can continue by extending the conversation.

3. Opposite opinions

One person takes a stance, others deliberately argue the opposite_ even if they don’t fully agree.

4. Challenging each other:

We can give each other topics to write articles on or do poetry.

You can share your ideas and we can also add time challenges.

Comment to connect.

Yours truly,