When They Wouldn't Listen

How I stopped trying to be understood—and learned to trust my own voice

Silhouette of a person releasing a lantern into the night sky over calm water — a quiet moment of release and reflection.

When I started this Substack, it was to leave a written legacy for my kids. But if I’m being honest, it was also to express what I’ve been trying to tell my parents—because they won’t listen to my words.

And by “won’t listen,” I don’t mean they won’t change their minds. I mean they truly won’t even hear my thoughts or opinions. They shut me down before I ever finish a sentence. They dismiss me, even laugh at me.

I’ve wrestled, I’ve cried, I’ve poured myself into this project, often in the wee hours, hoping each essay would open them just a little.

I felt an urgency. A hope after every new essay that they would finally see me. And that hasn’t happened.

After long, quiet reflection, I’ve realized it won’t. And that truth is a wound that may never fully heal.

I have to let go—not of my parents themselves, but of the crushing belief that if I just found the right words, they would finally listen and understand. That burden has been breaking me. And I can’t carry it anymore.

In the quiet that followed, darker thoughts crept in.

I’ve wondered if I’m unlovable. If I’ll ever be chosen.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking that if I were just a better person—if I could make myself believe what they believe, or at least pretend—I would finally be loved.

Not being chosen by the people who are supposed to choose me is devastating.

I am an orphan.