When life gets heavy
and my thoughts get loud,
you try to help me.
You tell me what you see,
what you think I should do,
where I might be going wrong,
and which road might lead me through.
And I push back.
I tell you I don't agree.
I explain why it won't work.
I defend the choices I've made
and convince myself
you just don't understand.
Sometimes I even wish
you'd stop giving me advice.
But here's what I don't tell you:
I heard you.
Even while I was arguing,
I heard you.
Your words didn't disappear
when the conversation ended.
They came home with me.
They sat quietly somewhere
in the back of my mind,
waiting for the anger to settle,
the fear to loosen its grip,
the stubbornness to grow tired.
And then one day,
maybe tomorrow,
maybe months from now,
maybe years from now,
I'll hear your voice again.
Not because you've repeated yourself,
but because I'm finally ready
to understand what you meant.
And I'll realize
you weren't trying to control me.
You weren't trying to prove me wrong.
You were trying to help me
because you cared enough
to tell me something
I wasn't ready to hear.
And slowly,
in my own time,
I'll begin doing
the very thing
I once told you I wouldn't.
So please keep talking to me.
Even when I argue.
Even when I dismiss you.
Even when it looks
like your words have fallen
on deaf ears.
I value your advice.
I trust your judgment.
And I carry your words
far longer than you know.
I may not take your advice
when you give it.
But sometimes
the best advice I've ever received
just needed time
to become my own.
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