The Art of Subtle Complaints

Daily writing prompt

What do you complain about the most?

Some people complain loudly. You can hear them from the next room: loud voices, sharp words, and their hands thrown in the air. That has never been my way. My complaints are more subtle, and most of the time they are only in my head; they never leave my mouth. Most days, if you asked, I would say I have nothing to complain about. If you knew me long enough, though, you would notice the places where my patience thins.

I complain about feeling invisible, though I rarely say it aloud. Sometimes I sit in the middle of a conversation and laugh while my mind wanders. I become a spectator in my own life. People around me don’t notice the things I want them to, like how I become quiet or how I focus on small details. I think that if someone really listened, they would hear the pain in my silence. Most people don’t, so I let it go.

I also have a subtle need for reassurance. It doesn’t have to be grand. I don’t want promises written down or words repeated until they lose their meaning. I want little things that I can count on: someone who is always there. I want to matter, not just when I’m joyful and bright, but also when I’m quiet, unsure, or difficult to love.

My complaints are not always about others. Often, they turn inward. I wish I didn’t care so much or that I wasn’t so sensitive. I notice every change in tone, every unspoken hesitation, and every silence that drags. It can be tiring to live with this awareness, and I sometimes wonder if anyone else feels the same way. I grumble to myself about how restless I am and how I’m never fully satisfied with the present moment or always want a little more than what is offered.

Some days I wish for more warmth and honesty before I have to ask. I don’t like chasing affection or trying to figure out hidden meanings. I want things to be simple, even though I know I’m not built for it. I study what most people overlook, a habit that can make me feel better and worse at the same time. I know I can be hard to read and that I expect a lot from the people I love, but I’d rather feel too much than not at all.

Sometimes I complain about not being in the know and having to guess what someone else is thinking or why their mood has changed. I want clarity. I want to know where I stand, even if it hurts. More than anything, I hope to be met where I am, not where it is convenient.

If you pay attention to what I’m saying, you’ll see that my complaints show what I value: being present, paying attention, giving reassurance, and having someone steady to lean on. These things aren’t obvious. Most of them fade away before anyone finds out. Instead, they live in the spaces between conversations, in the small annoyance of not getting a proper explanation, and in the longing for things to resolve. The truth is, I don’t need much. I just need to know I’m not invisible and to feel like I belong.

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The Other Me | The Woman Behind the Poem

When I wrote the poem “The Other Me,” I wasn’t trying to sound bold or dramatic. I was just being honest by telling my truth.

People often assume they know me. They see a woman who is quiet. A wife. A mom. A Christian. Someone who shows up, serves, nods politely, and doesn’t cause trouble or controversy. I’m familiar with this image because I’ve lived inside it for most of my adult life. It’s not that it’s wrong. It’s just incomplete.

There has always been a deeper current under the surface. Beneath all that facade of neatness, there is someone who asks harder questions or feels hurt when silenced. There is someone that remembers who I was before all the roles and expectations started to pile up on me.

“The Other Me” is not a fictional character. She is a real person who has always been by my side. I put her away, hidden, so that I could make room for acceptance, safety, and community. In religious communities, women are often praised for being quiet, gentle, and obedient. Where doubt must be neatly dressed in submission, and discomfort is treated like rebellion.

The poem came from the grief of hiding and of living a half-truth because the whole truth felt like too much.

I was taught to be agreeable as a child or to be well-liked. I learned that being difficult was the same as being rejected. That if you had questions, you lacked faith. That wanting more, like more closeness, more freedom, and more honesty, was wrong or selfish.

So I stayed small. I stayed quiet. I played the role so well I almost forgot I was acting. But staying quiet has a price.

When you’re around people who only know the version of you that makes them comfortable, a certain kind of loneliness grows. They love that safe version of you and they honor her because she embodies the values they approved. But you start to wonder if they would still love you if you said something out of character. What if I stopped editing myself for the sake of their comfort? What if I let the fire show?

And then one day you write a poem.

You write it because you have things you want to say but can’t. Your body remembers what your mind tries to bury. Because there is a woman inside you who is sick of bending over backwards to meet other people’s expectations.

You don’t even know if you’ll share it when you write it. But that is beside the point because the truth is you need to see this woman and say to her, “I haven’t forgotten you.”

“The Other Me” is about the version of myself that doesn’t fit into polite spaces. She is the one who laughs too loudly, writes about God and desire in the same line, and asks questions about things she was told not to touch. She loves deeply but won’t let anyone else control her.

In the past, I was scared of her.

But now I know she isn’t a threat. She isn’t being defiant just to be dramatic. She is just being honest. She is the version of me that lived and survived. And I owe her more than just silence.

When I say I feel alone sometimes, I mean it in a specific way. I don’t mean that I don’t have anyone around me. What I mean is that I don’t have a place that feels like home and where I belong. I don’t quite fit in with the local creative community, where the type of poetry that gets attention is usually light, easy to read, and trendy. I write differently. I write deeply. And sometimes, that depth becomes a wall between me and the world I want to reach.

At the same time, the people who connect with my work often live far away. They have different cultures, different worldviews. We connect through words, but we live in different worlds. That, too, feels like a dislocation.

But still, I write.

Because this is how I heal, and this is how I remember. This is how I get back the parts of myself that I’ve tried to hide for a long time.

The Other Me is not a rebellion. It is a way for me to return to the version of me that I’ve neglected.

And maybe, just maybe, if I keep writing her into existence, someone else out there who also feels out of place, half-formed, and unseen, will recognize themselves in my words. And that recognition will feel like belonging.

We might not need to fit in to be complete. Maybe we just need to be honest.

And that is what this poem gave me. A little more honesty. A little more light. A little more room to breathe.

And to the version of me that is still hiding: I see you. We’re coming home.

Note: This poem is not published yet, but you can read a short excerpt on my Threads post.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

The Color Called Olivia

Daily writing prompt

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

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If something carried my name, it would not be a star, a street, or a species of bird. No, I believe it would be more intimate. I’m not always sure how to define myself. Sometimes I feel like a color. It is not a solid color you find in stores or on paint charts. It’s a blend of several shades at once. It burns slowly before softening into something else.

This poem is the first piece of a new series of poetry, stories, and art called Color Studies: Olivia. It’s a way for me to trace the shape of who I am through emotion, memory, and metaphor. This first piece is the closest I’ve come to naming the in-between shade I carry in my heart.

The Color Called Olivia

There’s a shade I carry
that no one’s ever named.
Not even the sky has a word for it.
It comes after the burn,
before the skin peels.
It’s not plum. Not violet.
It happens after violet,
when the bruise turns philosophical.

I wear it like breath—
soft, unnoticed, until it’s gone.
I’ve been called gentle.
But they don’t see
how my gentleness and sorrow
are barbed wire wrapped in silk.

My laugh has layers
echoing through my ribs.
They hear it—
but not the hush
that comes before.

I’m the shade of ink
tainted with memory,
of bruised hibiscus on the windowsill,
of dusk pressed between diary pages.
I’m the color of
“I want but I shouldn’t,”
of loving him in fragments
because whole is too dangerous.

They’ll never sell me in stores.
Bottle me up. Claim me.
I’m the color of dusk
over a foreign city,
where no one knows my name.
I could be anyone.
I could be no one.

I’ve always felt as if I exist in between what I desire and what I allow myself to have. Writing this helped me identify that feeling, not with a label, but with a color. I don’t think any of us consist of “solid colors.” We are many things: bruises, washes, and layers. I’m slowly discovering what shades I am, and this is the first one.

If you were a color, what would it be? Or what color do you become when someone sees you?