The Gallery of My Heart

This is a reflection on what it means to give, to be unseen, and to reclaim the sacred space of the heart as something rare, worthy, and no longer open to just anyone.

Once again, I find myself gathering the shattered pieces of my heart, carefully sweeping them into the dustpan of my thoughts with the weeping broom of my eyes. I always believed that with time, I would grow wiser in my choices—especially in choosing who may step into the gallery of my emotions. But instead, I have led the blind through the most delicate halls of my heart, hoping they would pause long enough to see the love I so freely offered.

Did they see it? Did they see me? Or was I merely a fleeting exhibit, briefly admired before they moved on? No one pays admission here. At best, they leave a token of passing affection before disappearing into the distance.

Sitting with my emotions—disbelief, anger, sadness—I turn my gaze inward. What is the lesson buried in this ache? What truth have I been too distracted to notice? I have always been the artist of love, pouring kindness, care, and devotion into others. But have I ever stood still long enough to experience my own heart the way I long for others to? Could it be that the way I cherish and neglect myself is the very way others have come to experience me?

Self-love has always been a concept I understood, yet never fully embodied—until now.

To those who, knowingly or unknowingly, pushed my glass heart from its pedestal—thank you. I do not offer forgiveness, only understanding. Your presence was not in vain. Through you, I have come to see my heart more clearly, to hold it with more care, to usher others into its sacred space with greater intention.

And next time, I will make sure they know—this gallery is not free.