Being untouchable isn’t about what others call you.
It’s about what no longer touches you.
Not their opinions.
Not their expectations.
Not the silence in rooms where your name is no longer spoken.
Not the way they look at you like you broke some rule you never agreed to.
One is touched—too many times.
By whispers.
By side glances.
By the sting of friends disappearing one by one.
By the weight of not being invited, not being acknowledged, not being forgiven for being who they are.
But then something shifts.
There comes a time to walk in and out of rooms without shrinking.
To eat alone without apology.
To love without asking permission.
To remember who you are even when others pretend to forget.
To become untouchable not by hardening the heart, but by softening into truth.
With or without company, peace can be found.
With or without approval, one can rest in their own skin. This is the gift.
Not acceptance. Not applause.
But this this silence, this clarity, this sovereignty.
No longer fearing being left out.
Because nothing real can ever leave.
And nothing false can ever stay.
