When The Walls Remember What You Forgot

There are rooms inside my Glass House that I avoid.

Not because they're haunted —
but because I am.

Some rooms still hold the echo of who I used to be — the girl who laughed freely, trusted easily, and believed her heart was something unbreakable. That was before grief. Before deception. Before the fire I didn’t realize I was drowning in.

Tonight, I stepped back into one of those rooms.

Not a physical one — though the Glass House glowed softly behind me —
but an inner room I locked long ago.
The room where I hid the truth of what I endured.
The room where I folded pieces of myself so small I forgot they ever existed.

When I stepped inside, the air felt thick — familiar, heavy, waiting.

Because the walls remembered.

They remembered my father’s steady voice.
They remembered the warmth of the girl I used to be.
They remembered the promises I whispered to myself before fear taught me silence.

I had spent years running from those echoes.
But the walls weren’t accusing me.
They were calling me.

“Face this.
Don’t run this time.”

So I stood there.
Still.
Breathing.
Letting the truth rise instead of burying it again.

And something shifted.

The room didn’t feel like a trap anymore.
It felt like a doorway.

When I finally walked out, the lights in the Glass House flickered like they knew —
like they’d been waiting.

I’m not fully healed.
I’m not finished.
But I reclaimed a piece of myself I thought I’d lost forever.

If you’re reading this and avoiding your own locked rooms…
I understand.
I’ve lived in those shadows too.

But sometimes healing begins the moment you stop pretending you’re not hurting.

The walls remember —
and they’re ready to let you out.