People often talk about red flags as if they're warnings for others — something to stay away from. But sometimes, your biggest red flag isn't meant to scare anyone; it's a quiet truth you carry, something you've been trying to understand about yourself.
If I'm honest, mine is simple — I don't know how to talk about my feelings.
It's not because I don't feel deeply. In fact, I feel everything too much. Every emotion sits heavy in my chest, twisting and turning until it becomes something I can't quite describe. And instead of talking, I go silent. Not because I want to shut people out, but because I don't know where to start without breaking apart.
When something's wrong, I disappear. I stop replying, stop showing up, stop pretending. The people around me think I'm being distant, but what they don't see is how loud my mind becomes in those moments. I have entire conversations in my head — ones where I explain exactly what's hurting, why I'm quiet, and what I wish I could say. And in those imaginary talks, I sound so clear, so honest. But when it's time to say it out loud, the words feel too heavy to carry.
So, I wait.
I wait until I feel okay again. Until I can smile without forcing it. Until I can breathe without thinking about the thing that broke me. Then, slowly, I return — answering messages, joining conversations, laughing again. As if nothing ever happened.
It's not that I don't trust people. I do. It's just that I've learned I heal better in silence. I process better alone. When I'm quiet, I'm not ignoring the world — I'm trying to understand mine.
There's something about being alone that makes me honest with myself. I sit with my thoughts until they stop being strangers. I untangle the mess in my mind piece by piece, even if it takes days or weeks. And when I finally come back, I come back lighter — not because everything is fixed, but because I've learned how to carry it.
Still, I know this habit confuses people. They think I don't care, or that I'm avoiding them. But the truth is, I care too much — I just don't know how to express it while I'm in pain. Talking about feelings has never been easy for me. It feels like opening a locked door that has too many memories stored behind it. And I never know which one will spill out first.
There have been people who tried to understand. They asked, "What's wrong?" in that gentle way that made me almost want to tell them. Almost. But the words always got stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat. So I'd smile instead — a soft, practiced smile — and say, "I'm okay."
But "I'm okay" has never meant I'm fine. It means I'm trying to be.
Over time, I realized that my silence sometimes hurt others too. People want to help, they want to be there, but I never give them the chance. And I hate that. I hate that my way of coping looks like distance. I hate that people mistake my quiet for indifference. Because inside, I'm always fighting — not against them, but against myself.
There were nights when I wished I could change that about me. Nights when I promised myself that next time, I'd try to open up. But when "next time" came, I found myself doing the same thing again — shutting down, pulling away, building walls I didn't mean to build.
It's not easy to unlearn silence when it's been your safest place for so long.
But lately, I've been trying. Not perfectly, not consistently, but honestly. I've started telling people, "Hey, when I go quiet, it's not you — it's just how I process things." It's a small step, but it feels like something. I'm learning that vulnerability isn't weakness; it's communication. And maybe people can't read my silence unless I let them.
The people who truly care have stayed. They've learned to give me space without assuming the worst. They understand that when I return, it means I've done my healing in my own way. They don't take it personally. And that makes all the difference.
I still have days when I retreat into myself. Days when my thoughts are louder than any conversation I could have. But I no longer feel guilty for needing space. I no longer see my silence as a flaw — it's just a part of me that's still learning how to exist in a world that expects constant communication.
I think that's what healing looks like for me — learning to balance solitude and connection, learning to be quiet without disappearing.
So yes, maybe my biggest red flag is that I don't always know how to talk about my feelings. That when I'm hurting, I vanish. That I need time before I can find my words again. But I've stopped hating that about myself. Because behind that silence, there's a person who feels deeply, who loves quietly, who heals in her own rhythm.
If you ever find me distant, don't think I've stopped caring. I'm just somewhere inside my own head, fixing the things I don't yet know how to explain. I'll come back when the words make sense again — when the storm inside me softens into calm.
And when I do, I'll smile — not because I've forgotten what hurt, but because I've finally made peace with it.
Maybe that's not a red flag after all. Maybe it's just the way I survive.