They call it irrational
like naming it that
should make it smaller.
Like feelings
need permission
from logic
to be real.
I know it doesn’t make sense.
I know the reaction
doesn’t match the moment,
that my chest
shouldn’t tighten this fast,
that silence
shouldn’t feel like abandonment,
that one small shift
shouldn’t unravel
an entire day.
And still—
it does.
Because emotion
doesn’t always ask
what’s reasonable.
It remembers.
Old wounds
wear new faces.
Past pain
learns new names.
And suddenly
I’m not just reacting
to right now—
I’m reacting
to every version
of this feeling
I’ve ever survived.
That’s what people miss.
It’s not irrational
when your body
thinks it’s protecting you.
Even if it’s wrong.
Even if the danger
isn’t real anymore.
So no—
maybe it doesn’t make sense
from the outside.
But inside this skin,
inside a heart
that learned fear
before safety—
it feels
completely real.