No One Told You It Would Hurt This Long
By Roy Dawson, Earth Angel, Master Magical Healer
A Man Who’s Seen Too Much and Learned to Stand Still

I have always wished people the best. Truly.
I love seeing people succeed. I love seeing people happy. And I mean it when I say that. But you’d be surprised how many folks look at you sideways when you say something kind. Like kindness is a trick. Like peace is suspicious. Like nobody could actually want good things for other people.

If more people thought like I do, maybe the world wouldn’t be so damn bitter.
Maybe if the next time you were at the grocery store, and a woman with three kids blocked the aisle with her cart, she’d actually smile, move it, and say, “Excuse me—have a nice day.”

That little shift? That small grace? It could heal more than we think.

But people don’t think like that. Not often.
They hurt each other, sometimes on purpose. Sometimes just because no one taught them how not to.
When I was a little boy, my father looked down at me, squinting into the sun, and said,
“You keep teasing that dog, boy, one day he’s gonna bite you.”

He was right.

That’s the first lesson in betrayal, I suppose. The bite always comes from something you thought you understood. From someone you thought wouldn’t. And by the time you feel the teeth, it’s too late to run.

I’ve always been a man of peace. I’d rather fish than fight. I’d rather pour two drinks than throw one. But don’t mistake peace for weakness. A man can sit quiet for a long time—but he won’t sit in bullshit forever. No, not for long.

Because there’s a kind of pain that doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t limp. Doesn’t cry in the daylight. It’s the kind that hides behind your eyes. Lives in the back of your throat. The kind you carry into every room, even when you smile. Especially when you smile.

It doesn’t scream in alleys or write its name in blood. It waits. It waits for the quiet. It waits until you’re alone—not when you want to be, but when you are. And then it shows its face.

You trusted someone. That was your mistake.

You thought love was like fishing: simple, steady, honest. You cast your line, and if you were patient, something good might come up. But they didn’t play honest. They didn’t even need to lie. They just held their affection out like a drink—just close enough to see, never close enough to sip. They let you read more thirst. And they smiled while you did.

People think betrayal comes fast. Like a shot in the dark. But it doesn’t. Betrayal is slow. It’s methodical. It’s cold. It sits beside you, passes you the salt, and listens to your stories with dead eyes. It eats what you cook and says thank you with a smirk. And you don’t even notice, not at first. That’s how it wins.

Then one day, they say it was your fault. And you almost believe them.
That’s the worst kind of hell—when you believe them.
When you pick up the knife they left in your back and carve their initials into your chest.
When you start saying sorry for the things they did to you.
When you wear their guilt like your father’s old leather coat and forget how heavy it is.

They led you through rooms with no doors.
“Come this way,” they said.
But there was only another wall.
Another silence. Another nothing.

You weren’t crazy.
You were careful.

You weren’t weak.
You were wounded.

No one told you it would hurt this long.

No one told you that healing isn’t loud.
That it doesn’t come with applause.
It comes quietly.
Like snow falling on rooftops at night.

You start to remember who you were before they spun you like a compass and stole your direction. You start to feel that old softness in your chest, the one you had to bury to survive.

You stop asking why. You stop chasing answers from people who don’t speak the truth.

Now they’re afraid. Not of your anger—but of your stillness.

You don’t yell. You don’t plead.
You just see.
And that’s worse for them than any kind of vengeance.

You once would’ve died for them.
Now you won’t even return a message.

They fed you scraps of affection like a dog and then blamed you for being hungry.
They offered you hope like a jailer offers light through a barred window.

But one day, you tasted the bitterness in their kindness.
You saw the rot behind the grin.
And check here you walked away.

That was it.
Not a bang. Not a blaze.
Just a step.
One step toward yourself.

They never expected that.

Now they sit in a house of mirrors, haunted by the echo of your absence.
They told you the chains were yours.
But the key had always been in your hand.
They just convinced you it wasn’t.

You were never too much.
You were never too sensitive.
You were never wrong for needing love that was real.

You were the light.

You are the light.

They can’t unsee it.

Let this be a word for those still aching in the quiet:
The pain was real.
But so is your healing.

The road back to yourself is not straight. It is not easy. But it is holy.
You didn’t just survive. You remembered.
You rose.

And now they watch you go.

Not with fire in your footsteps.
But with peace in your bones.

And that silence?
That silence is the loudest thing they’ll ever hear.

Somewhere, more info a man stares out at the sea, knowing now why it never answered him. Somewhere, a woman takes a long breath and doesn’t apologize for taking up space. And somewhere—you—you stand up, walk away, and don’t look back.

You were never broken.
You were just waiting for the truth.

Roy Dawson
Earth Angel. Master Magical Healer.
A man get more info who sees the pain. And still chooses peace.