This Cage Was Built by Those I Love Vol. 01 — WordsByEkta🌿
This Cage Was Built by Those I Love
In some families, asking for something — even something small — feels like rebellion. You don't ask because you think you'll get it. You ask because you're still hoping to be heard.
I once asked to travel out of town for a class. A chance. An opportunity that would've meant the world to me. I had thought about it carefully. I had done the emotional math. I was sure I could explain why this mattered. I didn't expect an automatic yes, but I hoped for a conversation.
Instead, I was met with a no. Not a thoughtful no. Not a no with reasons or reflection. Just a flat, cold, quick no. No curiosity. No space for "why." No faith that I could know what I needed.
It wasn't even about the thing anymore. It was about what the no represented — that I didn't matter enough to be heard. That I didn't have the right to want more than what had already been decided for me.
Something quiet cracked inside me that day. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Just a small, sharp fracture where trust used to live. A part of me — the one that believed I could dream and still belong — began to retreat. Another part, silent for far too long, finally picked up a pen.
I didn't write because I had answers. I wrote because I had nowhere else to place my pain.
The words came in fragments. Jagged, awkward, unfiltered. Not elegant, but honest. They were mine. They held the ache of being loved but not understood.
I wrote about what it felt like to live in a home where love was loud, but trust was quiet. Where concern meant control. About how painful it is when your family wants the best for you but never asks what you believe the best could be. Where dreams had to be small enough to fit someone else's comfort zone.
I wrote about that unique kind of suffocation — the one that comes not from hatred, but from too much control disguised as care.
I wasn't asking to run away or break the rules. I was asking for one moment of choice. One small step of autonomy. One breath of air.
Instead, I was handed fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what people might say. Fear disguised as protection. But mostly, fear — fear of change, fear of letting go, even just a little.
And so I carried that fear — not because I agreed with it, but because I had no safe place to release it.
Writing became that place.
Whenever I felt like I was choking on silence, I wrote. Whenever I wanted to scream but had no one to scream to, I wrote. And in those hidden words, I began to recognize myself again — not as a daughter under a spotlight of judgment, but as a human worthy of choice.
Here is the poem I wrote that day — not polished, but honest. A piece of my voice, raw and unfiltered:
I have everything, yet it feels like I have nothing.
I want to do something, but I can't figure out what.
I want to cry, but no tears come.
I want to live life on my own terms,
But life — people — won't let me.
I feel hollow inside.
Why was I brought into this world?
I've lived so many years already,
But still don't understand the purpose of my life.
I can't go on suffocating like this,
In a world where even my dreams aren't safe from those closest to me.
I want to live — not by merely surviving,
But by truly smiling, laughing, breathing.
Not on others' terms. But on my terms — for the people I love.
Why am I caged like this? Is this really the entire scope of my world?
If this is all there is, I've seen enough.
I don't want to see more. Why don't I understand myself anymore?
Why are my own people afraid to give me freedom?
I am their daughter — not a criminal.
They've confined me, but won't say why.
This is life, but I'm not allowed to live it.
I don't even know what I've written.
I just poured out what was in my heart.
I'm not a writer. But I do have pain. Pain too large for words.
I know these aren't polished sentences, but the pain itself isn't false.
There's so much suffocation inside me.
Why was I made like this? Was I made for anything meaningful?
Sometimes it feels like I'm meant to do something bigger.
But I don't understand what I'm doing right now.
God, please — don't do this to anyone else.
When even the people you care for the most
Can't understand you, can't trust you — it breaks something.
Dear God — let something change. Let all my 'no's turn into 'yeses.'
Let me live, not with silent suffering, but with dignity and clarity of purpose.
Please help me understand — Who am I? Why am I here?
Let me live, even for a few moments, on my own terms.
Maybe the act of writing — of saying, "This is how it felt" — is the beginning of living on my own terms.
Writing didn't fix the relationship. It didn't rewrite my past. But it gave me back something I didn't know I had lost — my voice.
That day, I wasn't asking for permission. I was asking for possibility. I was asking to be seen as someone capable of knowing what she needed. A moment to say, "This matters to me," and be met with something other than silence.
I don't know if the people who once silenced me will ever read what I've written. But maybe someone else will. Someone who's also been told no before they could explain why.
And maybe that's enough.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
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