I’ve worked my whole life. That’s not an exaggeration,

since the age of seven, I’ve been grinding, surviving, carrying weights children shouldn’t even know exist. And maybe that’s why it’s so hard to please me. Not because I’m ungrateful, but because life taught me early that nothing comes easy, and nothing comes for free.

Growing up poor shapes you in strange, invisible ways. You’d think it would make me jump with excitement when I receive something nice, but it doesn’t work like that for me. Of course I’m happy. Of course I appreciate it. But along with the gratitude comes a familiar guilt, the guilt of being the receiver. The guilt of knowing how hard people work for their money, and wondering what good I’ve done to deserve being spent on.

It’s not insecurity. And it’s not pride from surviving poverty. It’s simply the truth that I know how difficult it is to earn something. And when someone chooses to give it to me… I question why. Most people give to get, and I’ve lived long enough to recognize that instantly.

But recently, I realized there’s a different kind of gift, one that doesn’t ask for guilt, just presence.

The joy I crave of simply being seen.

Noticed.

Heard.

For all the little, ridiculous, unimportant details I’ve spilled into the world without expecting anyone to care. And someone did. Someone listened close enough to remember the small things, the things that aren’t much.

And for the first time in my life, I cried not because something hurt, but because something finally healed.

After years of longing, someone finally noticed me. Not for what I could give. Not for what I could sacrifice. But simply for being me.

I’ve never been materialistic. I like things, sure! I’m easily influenced, and I’ll admit that proudly. But what touched me deeper than anything money could buy was the feeling of someone choosing to pay attention. Of someone choosing to bring joy to my life without asking for anything in return.

It felt like the sky right after a storm. The sun finally breaking through, the clouds suddenly soft, cotton-like, light enough to swallow.

That’s the kind of joy I want to keep.
That’s the kind of love my heart recognizes.

Not the grand gestures.
Not the price tags.
Not the “things.”

Just the quiet miracle of finally being seen.