The Weight of Unheard Words

It’s a weight, man. That feeling of knowing you messed up, and knowing the person you messed up with is still looking at you, holding onto it. Not like a grudge, maybe, but like a piece of a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. I’ve seen it in my dad’s eyes, a whole lot actually. Growing up, it felt like he was always trying to explain things, justify things, make things…right. Always from *his* side. Always the explanation first, the acknowledgment later, if at all.

The thing is, explanations don’t always heal. Sometimes, what’s needed isn't a defense. It's just…hearing. Really *hearing* what someone’s saying, not just waiting for them to finish so you can drop the counterpoint. I used to get frustrated, arguing back, trying to make my own case for why I felt the way I did. It was a battle, and in those battles, nobody won. All that happened was the gap between us widened a little more.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, especially with the music. Creating, especially beats, is all about listening – listening to the sounds, the spaces, the vibe. It’s the same process, really. You gotta let the track breathe before you start layering on the effects. You gotta let the feeling sit before you try to put words to it. Same with people, with relationships.

It's like when I was younger, after the argument about the basketball tournament. I felt like he didn't understand why it mattered so much to me, why I felt cheated when he pulled me out early. He talked about the team, about fairness, about making sure everyone got a chance. It was a valid point, but it wasn’t what I needed to hear in that moment. I needed him to just see that it hurt. That I felt disappointed.

My own creative process has taught me something important. That beat I made back in August…it was raw. Honest. It just *was*. No explaining, no justifying, just a feeling given form. It felt like a weight lifted, a clarity. It made me realize I needed to apply that same honesty to everything. To my music, to my studies, to my relationships.

It’s tough, though. It’s a reflex, that need to explain, to defend. My dad isn’t a bad man, far from it. He just… he learned a different language when it came to dealing with feelings. A language of logic and reasoning. But sometimes, what’s needed is a different language entirely – the language of empathy.

I'm trying to be better at it, now. At listening, truly listening, to the people around me. At checking my own urge to explain and instead just…holding space. It’s an ongoing process. It's about understanding that sometimes, the most loving thing you can do isn't to fix something, but to simply acknowledge the hurt it caused.

And maybe, just maybe, that acknowledgment is the first step toward putting those pieces of the puzzle back together. Maybe that's the start of finding a way forward, a way to bridge that gap and see each other, really see each other, again.