I cry, and don’t ask me why.
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Don’t Ask Me Why I’m Crying
I cry, and don’t ask me why.
Some texts aren’t written to explain. They’re written to release. Like a tear.
This text is mine. And it belongs to the little me who cried, and the grown me who no longer needs to know why.
Maybe you’ll recognize yourself. Maybe you’ll just stay silent with me. Maybe not even that. And that’s okay.
I was born crying.
I cried for two years straight. Never ending.
They say pure souls, until the age of four, still remember past lives, old stories, and ancient pains.
I cried every day. And then one day, I just stopped. Not because it was over, but because I managed to understand: “Enough.”
They tried to scare me with everything. Nothing worked except the threat of a neighbor — who, by the way, was actually a very kind man. I remember that. I remember my parents knocking on the wooden bed, telling me that he couldn’t sleep.
I wasn’t crying on purpose. I didn’t want to disturb anyone’s sleep, anyone’s peace — especially not my parents’ or my brother’s. But I did.
That image of me stayed engraved. Everyone joked about it, even when I was a young girl. Even when I was a grown woman.
But that child… she didn’t know how to say why she was crying. She didn’t even know why. Just as some children are born laughing, I was born crying.
I remember that dissatisfied feeling. That endlessly deep hole that couldn’t be filled with tears. No matter how much I wiped them, they kept coming. I remember wet sleeves… a wet pillowcase.
You know that feeling when you can’t influence something? You maybe would, but you simply can’t. That was the feeling. Tears just flowed, sobs grew louder. Like when you dream of screaming, you open your mouth but no voice comes out — I would see myself not crying, while I was still sobbing.
I felt like I was too much for everyone. Persistent. Constant. “Too sensitive.” “Crying again.”
I even learned to cry silently, years later.
And even then, nobody took me seriously, because I was just the “crybaby.”
Later, it became shameful to cry. I swallowed every emotion so I wouldn’t be that “crying girl.”
I learned to cover fears, bad dreams, harsh words with a smile.
And still, so much uncried remained in me — no matter how it seemed otherwise.
Today, my tears are precious to me. Welcome.
I know they are the river that cleanses, that carries things away.
If you asked me today why I cry — I’d say I don’t know. And I don’t need to know.
I cry. That’s it. It comes, and I let it.
Like a shower I let run down my skin, I let tears run down my soul.
It feels good.
Don’t ask me why I cry.
Maybe it’s time we stop asking why and start listening. To be a shoulder. To be a river. A lap.
For the little me, and for all the little girls who heard “Enough already” instead of:
“I see you.”
A somatic perspective
In somatics and neuroscience, tears are not weakness — they are regulation. When we cry, the body lowers stress levels, activates the parasympathetic nervous system, and returns to balance.
Tears are not just emotion — they are the body’s natural practice of self-healing.
Somatic practice:
A Gentle Release for the Heart and Chest
1. Chest opening with breath
Roll a towel to match the length of your spine and lie down on it.
Keep your knees bent.
Place your arms in front of you so your forearms touch, palms together in a prayer position.
With the exhale, slowly open your arms outward, but don’t let them drop all the way to the floor. Keep them floating while the pause after the exhale lasts.
With the inhale, return your arms until the forearms touch again.
Repeat 6 times, slowly, with full awareness of your breath.
2. Gentle chest release
Place your palms on your chest.
With the fingertips, gently pull the skin outward, as if opening your chest.
Feel your ribs, your fascia, the micro-reactions in the tissue.
Continue for a few minutes, observing whatever arises.
3. Closing in fetal position
When finished, roll gently onto the side that calls you.
Hug your knees toward your chest, curling into a fetal position.
Stay there as long as needed, allowing the body to retreat and fully soften.
After the tears
Sometimes tears come without a reason. Maybe they don’t need one.
Crying is the river that carries what we no longer need to hold.
Maybe it’s time to stop asking why and start listening.