The Intimacy of Being Heard

I have always been someone who talks a lot.

Not in the loud, attention seeking way people imagine.
But in the quiet, overflowing way.

The kind where thoughts keep appearing like little waves, one after another.

Sometimes it’s something small.

The color of the sky at 6:20 in the evening.
A strange dream from the night before.
A memory that suddenly walks back into the room while I’m doing something ordinary.

And when those thoughts arrive, my first instinct is always the same.

I want to tell someone.

But the world is not always patient with people who have many words.

People say things like
“You talk too much.”
“You explain everything in so much detail.”
“Just get to the point.”

And slowly, somewhere inside, you begin to wonder if your thoughts are too long, too unnecessary, too heavy for other people to carry.

Until one day, someone listens.

Not the distracted kind of listening where the eyes are somewhere else.
Not the kind where someone waits politely for you to finish so they can change the topic.

But the rare kind.

The kind where they stay.

They listen to the whole story.
Even the unnecessary parts.
Even the details that wander a little too far from the point.

And something inside you softens.

Because when someone truly listens, it feels like a very quiet form of love.

They are not just hearing your words.

They are holding them.

They remember the random things you said days ago.
They ask about stories you mentioned once and almost forgot about yourself.

And suddenly, talking does not feel like a burden you are placing on someone.

It feels like home.

There is an intimacy in being heard that people don’t talk about enough.

Not the dramatic kind of intimacy.