Something inside of me hardened. 

It’s an odd feeling to get when someone is giving you advice. 

Yet it happened. 

I felt sadness fill my core. 

My mouth contorted in an attempt to stop the pending frown.

And something in me became solid and hard as steel. 

Usually, I welcome spoonfuls of guidance from those I trust. 

But I couldn’t digest this dose.

I tried to swallow each letter. 

Each syllable. 

Each argument. 

But I vomited them all up immediately.

And I didn’t understand why.

And it troubled me deeply.

So I went home. 

Sat on the steps. 

And thought. 

And prayed. 

And cried. 

Then it came to me. 

Maybe it’s not digesting because it’s not supposed to. 

I hardened for a reason.

Hardened so that the pounding of her words against my heart wasn’t enough to break through. 

Hardened so that it would obliterate the precarious logic behind her reasoning. 

Hardened so that the truth encased within me wouldn’t be tainted. 

People can be sincere in their advice. 

And they can be sincerely wrong. 

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