I used to believe in open doors. I welcomed people in with an unguarded heart, thinking that kindness and love would be enough to keep me safe. But people are cruel they tear through like a storm, and carve wounds so deep that even time struggles to heal them. So I built walls. Not all at once, not intentionally. It started with small barriers and hesitation before trusting, silence instead of vulnerability. Over time, those small defenses became something stronger, something impenetrable. Now, my walls are high, my gates locked, and I stand behind them, watching the world from a safe distance. It’s not that I don’t want connection. I do. But the thought of opening up, of letting someone see the fragile parts of me, feels like holding a blade against my own skin. What if they use my truths against me? What if I let them in, only to watch them walk away with my wounded soul like all the rest? People say walls keep others out, but they also keep me in. And maybe that’s the real fear, not loneliness, not isolation, but the possibility that I may never find the courage to tear them down.