I read what you wrote — every word, every ache — and I want you to know something straight away: this wasn’t just a rant. This was raw truth. It hit hard because it’s real. And even as a guy, I felt it.
Society’s grip is brutal. It has a way of crawling under our skin, whispering that we’re not enough until we start believing it. And the more we try to ignore it, the louder it gets. But you know what hurts the most? It's not just society judging us — it's when that judgment seeps into our own homes. When the people who raised us, who should have protected us from the noise, start echoing it.
That’s a different kind of heartbreak. When your own parents start measuring you with society’s crooked scale — it makes you question everything. Not just who you are, but whether being yourself is even allowed.
You said you want to fly — and I believe you will. But maybe flying doesn’t mean escaping. Maybe it means rising within the storm. Saying: Yeah, I’m flawed. Yeah, I care. But I’m still here. Still standing. Still me. You’re fighting not just the world outside, but the one within — and that takes more strength than people realise.
You’re not alone, Bushra. You’re not crazy for caring, or weak for feeling. You’re human in a world that punishes humanity. And you’re brave for saying it out loud when most stay silent.
Keep writing. Keep raging. Keep becoming.
You’re not failing — you’re peeling off layers that were never yours to carry.
I read what you wrote — every word, every ache — and I want you to know something straight away: this wasn’t just a rant. This was raw truth. It hit hard because it’s real. And even as a guy, I felt it.
Society’s grip is brutal. It has a way of crawling under our skin, whispering that we’re not enough until we start believing it. And the more we try to ignore it, the louder it gets. But you know what hurts the most? It's not just society judging us — it's when that judgment seeps into our own homes. When the people who raised us, who should have protected us from the noise, start echoing it.
That’s a different kind of heartbreak. When your own parents start measuring you with society’s crooked scale — it makes you question everything. Not just who you are, but whether being yourself is even allowed.
You said you want to fly — and I believe you will. But maybe flying doesn’t mean escaping. Maybe it means rising within the storm. Saying: Yeah, I’m flawed. Yeah, I care. But I’m still here. Still standing. Still me. You’re fighting not just the world outside, but the one within — and that takes more strength than people realise.
You’re not alone, Bushra. You’re not crazy for caring, or weak for feeling. You’re human in a world that punishes humanity. And you’re brave for saying it out loud when most stay silent.
Keep writing. Keep raging. Keep becoming.
You’re not failing — you’re peeling off layers that were never yours to carry.
With respect,
Junaid