The Criminal in Me (Part 2): Whispers from the Hallway

Somehow, we all like to believe that once we’ve buried something, it stays buried. But the truth is—the past never really rests. It lingers. It haunts. It whispers from that endless hallway in our minds. Especially during the quietest hours—in the cracks of conversations, in the silence between laughter, and in the sleepless nights when your brain replays every choices you wish you hadn’t made, every memory rushing through the scars you've tried to forget.

Looking back, I’ve seen so many versions of myself—each one trying harder to blend in, to adapt, to improve. Always chasing the illusion of becoming a "better" me. It’s like shedding layers, except the more you shed, the less of yourself you recognize.

I learned to smile even when I didn’t feel like it. To nod, even when I completely disagreed. To silence myself, even when I desperately needed help.

That’s what I thought being an adult meant. As long as I could hold everything together, no one would see the cracks. If no one could see me unravel, then maybe I wasn’t really falling apart. Maybe I was just doing

what everyone else was doing—surviving.

But eventually, the cracks started whispering.

Their haunting voices wrapped around me, pulling me back to the version of myself I had locked away—the child who asked questions without fear, who dreamed freely, who felt deeply. I had thrown that child into a bottle and sealed it shut. I told myself it was for protection. The truth? I was ashamed of him.

The return didn’t come rushing back all at once. It crept in through the smallest gaps, trying to reach me.

It reminded me of a quote I once loved:

"The sound of my own voice asking for something without shame. The feeling of laughing loudly without guilt—like sunlight wrapping around me on a soft, warm day."

It just felt right. Familiar. A heartbeat from another lifetime.

It wasn’t a grand return. It was quiet, gentle, swirling through the armor I’d built. Beneath it, something tender was still alive—something I had nearly forgotten.

Then came the guilt.

The guilt of feeling joy.

The fear that if I let that part of me live again, I’d betray the "mature" version I had worked so hard to build. That inner voice hissed: "You’ve been soft for too long. You cared too much. Look where that got you."

But here’s what hurt more: I hadn’t only silenced the child. I’d sentenced the survivor to die in silence too.

We hear so much about what it means to grow up—to be stronger, to build a life that makes sense. But how often do we talk about the things we lose in that process? The softness hardened by disappointment. The emotions bottled up because they’re "inconvenient." The dreams tucked away because they no longer fit the plan.

So I asked myself: Is this really the life we dreamed of? All growth and no reflection? Becoming someone we barely recognize?

So many of us cry quietly—behind closed doors, in the shower, under the covers—hoping for answers. But instead, we run headfirst into walls too tall to climb. And we stop trying. Not because we’re weak, but because surrender feels safer than hope.

But the mask always slips. And when it does, you’re forced to face with the parts of yourself you’ve tried to erase. The scars, the weight, the guilt of performing strength for so long that forget how to feel anything else.

The truth is, real answers don’t come from isolation. They come from movement, connection, reflection. They come from the willingness to feel—even when it hurts.

I’m not pretending I’ve figured it all out. Some days I still feel like a ghost drifting through my own timeline—smiling, nodding, playing the role to avoid questions. But lately, something’s been shifting.

I’ve started listening. Not to the noise of expectations, but to the quiet cries I kept buried. The ones that whisper: "You’re allowed to miss who you used to be. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to come home to yourself."

It’s strange how healing begins in silence. How powerful it feels to stop running and just simply sit with the truth: "Yes, that happened. And it changed me. But I’m still here."

I’m not trying to erase my past. I don’t want to resurrect the child entirely. But I am trying to build a bridge—a middle ground. A quiet space where the child and the adult can meet. Not to argue. Not to prove anything. Just to sit together in peace.

And maybe that’s what healing really is:

Not perfection.

Not pretending.

Just connection.

To the hurt.

To the joy.

To the chaos.

To the beauty.

I still carry the criminal in me. But the child—the child is beginning to return.

And maybe that’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

To be continued...