You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.
I say that every morning now, standing barefoot in the kitchen while the kettle hums and the sky bleeds slow light over the rooftops. I say it like a spell. Like the 14-year-old version of me—curled up under her school uniform, swallowing apologies like cough syrup—might actually hear it this time.
She never felt safe in her own skin. Too loud when she spoke her mind. Too quiet when she didn’t. Eyes too intense. Laugh too awkward. Hair never quite right. She walked through school halls like she was holding her breath, convinced that being seen meant being found wanting. So she bent. She folded. She learned to be small, useful, agreeable—the kind of girl who remembers everyone’s birthday but cries in the bathroom on her own.
I wish I could go back and sit beside her on that cold tile floor. Not with advice. Not with motivational quotes or Pinterest mantras. Just space. Just silence that doesn’t demand anything. Because what she really needed wasn’t courage or confidence—it was permission. Permission to exist without apology. To take up space without asking. To want things, to need things, to be things, even if it made others uncomfortable.
I didn’t understand until years later that I’d been conflating love with survival. That every time someone smiled at me, I filed it away like a food ration. Every compliment a reprieve. Every relationship a test: How much of myself can I erase before they notice? How much can I give before I collapse and still be called 'good'?
It’s brutal, realizing you were trained—by systems, by silence, by the quiet dismissal in adult voices—not to trust your own instincts. To second-guess your pain. To apologize for your boundaries. I once cried after saying 'no' to a friend, not because I regretted it, but because I thought I’d become a monster for having one in the first place.
But here’s what I know now: healing isn’t about becoming unbreakable. It’s about learning how to break—really break—and still come back. Not as someone new, but as someone true. It’s about tracing the old scars and realizing they’re not proof of failure. They’re maps. They’re signposts. They’re where the light got in.
So every morning, I speak to her.
I tell her she doesn’t have to be productive to be worthy. I tell her her anger isn’t ugly—it’s information. I tell her it’s okay to walk away, to change her mind, to not respond to a text for three days. I tell her that her sensitivity isn’t weakness—it’s her radar, her magic, her gift.
And sometimes—maybe not every day, but often enough—I feel it. A quiet shift. Like something deep inside unclenches. Like the girl who used to flinch at her own reflection is starting to recognize herself. Not because she’s prettier or more successful or finally 'fixed.' But because she’s heard.
I’ve started leaving notes on the bathroom mirror. Not affirmations in cursive script, but raw, shaky truths. 'You don’t owe anyone your peace.' 'Your 'too much' is someone else’s lifeline.' 'Rest is not betrayal.'
I write them in pen, not marker, so they fade. So I have to rewrite them. So I remember this isn’t a one-time breakthrough. It’s daily rebellion.
There’s a photo of me at 16 on my bookshelf. I hate how thin I look. How dull my eyes are. But I thank her. I thank her for surviving. For staying online even when every cell wanted to shut down. For whispering, 'Keep going,' even when she didn’t believe it.
And I tell her: 'I’m not trying to save you. I’m trying to join you.'
Because healing isn’t about leaving the past behind. It’s about going back with everything you’ve learned and saying, I see you. We’re still here. We’re still doing our best.
That’s the ritual. The quiet, unglamorous, desperately necessary act of parenting myself.
And it’s the most sacred thing I do.
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