I still catch myself apologizing for taking up space, even though I've spent years actively trying to unlearn that reflex. Sometimes I still feel like I need permission to exist loudly, even though the quiet almost killed me. It's a strange dance, this claiming of self. I still feel the phantom weight of all the things I wasn't allowed to want. Like a limb that was amputated long ago, but the itching persists, a constant reminder of the space where joy should be.