Today, I came across a beautiful sentence with a beautiful meaning. It says: It’s not important for people to give you a special place in their hearts, because nowadays, hearts seem too small to embrace everyone. However, it’s enough to receive their respect.
Do you know why I find it beautiful? Because it’s true.
The fast-changing rhythm of life often fills our hearts with disappointment, hurt, indifference, selfishness, fear, and other negative emotions. Of course, love, kindness, compassion, and other noble feelings still exist, but they are squeezed and squashed with other negative ones. Therefore, it becomes a great challenge for a newcomer to even try to find a place in such a mess.
On the other hand, respect means making a good impression – one that draws others to remember you and seek your company, advice, or simply your presence. In other words, you win their hearts by treading this different, safer road.
That’s why it’s enough to win others’ respect; after all, that’s another way to win their hearts.
With hope and peace,
Nahla
Pure and Simple 
There’s this heavy feeling going around, this sad story we tell ourselves: that hearts have just… given up. That they’re too small now, too scarred, too utterly exhausted to hold anything more. Like tiny, clenched fists.
But that doesn’t sit right, deep in my gut. Hearts aren’t closets you just fill up and lock. They’re living muscle, aren’t they? They take the hits life throws. They carry the impossible weight – every fragile joy, every gut-wrenching loss, every confusing silence. They stretch, oh god, yes, sometimes until the fibers scream, until it feels like they’re tearing apart from the inside out. They scar over. They learn to beat around the wounds. And then, somehow, impossibly, they keep beating, keep making room. It’s what they do. It’s how we survive.
So maybe the crushing weight isn’t the stuff inside the heart. Maybe the real agony is the profound, deafening silence around it. It feels like the whole world forgot the simple language of knocking gently, of just showing up without needing an invitation, of saying “I’m here.” And so many hearts… they didn’t slam the door and throw the bolt out of anger. No, they just… faded. Worn thin behind the wood, eroded by the endless, hollow echo of waiting. Waiting for footsteps, for a voice, for anything besides the sound of their own lonely pulse in the quiet. Waiting until hope itself felt like another wound.
We talk about ‘respect’ these days. It sounds noble, safe. Like keeping things clean. Maybe it feels less risky. But down in the marrow, beneath all the armor and the careful smiles, what every single soul aches for, bleeds for, is to be chosen. Not just tolerated, or glanced at, or remembered kindly in passing. Chosen. Seen, truly seen, in all the messy, complicated, imperfect glory. Picked. Wanted. With a terrifying, breathtaking vulnerability. Without conditions, without backup plans, without escape hatches. Just that raw, elemental, earth-shattering whisper: “You. Against everything, despite everything… it’s you.”
And I swear, I’ve seen glimpses of it. Like lightning flashes in the dark. A heart ripping itself open for a stranger weeping on a bus bench. Someone walking straight into the suffocating darkness of another’s pain, holding them not just with arms, but with their whole being, like they were born anchoring souls. This unbelievable, devastatingly quiet courage… it’s still here. Breathing softly in the shadows, in the unnoticed corners. But it doesn’t wear a flashy sign. It doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t ask for applause. It happens in the sacred, unseen spaces we’re often too busy, too distracted, or maybe just too scared to look. And so, tragically, we forget. We forget it’s the very oxygen we’re starving for.
We keep telling ourselves that love, that deep, soul-level connection, is a ghost story. A myth. Impossibly rare. Maybe not even real for most of us. But what if it isn’t rare? What if it’s just… crushingly quiet? What if it’s been standing right beside us all along, close enough to touch, its hand tentatively outstretched, while we’re over there, bleeding our knuckles raw on locked doors that were never meant for us, screaming into the void, begging for an echo from the wrong damn place?
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That’s really so good and deep analysis of both the idea and the context of my post. Actually I like yours more than mine. Thanks so much for reading and sharing your thoughts.
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