waitingformontauk

[waitingformontauk]

I’ve Been Both of Them: What Eternal Sunshine Taught Me About Losing and Finding Myself

I used to think Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was about love — tragic, messy, beautiful love. And maybe on the surface it is. But the more I’ve returned to it, the more I’ve realized: it’s about identity. Memory. The self you lose, the one you run from, and the one you eventually crawl back to.

There’s that moment where Clementine says,

“I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s looking for her own peace of mind. I’m not perfect.”

And Joel doesn’t say anything. He just stares like he’s already grieving her. Like some part of him knows she’s slipping — not just away from him, but maybe from herself.

I’ve been both of them.

Clementine, impulsive and aching and trying to outrun the noise in her own head. Saying things she doesn’t always mean. Looking for something to quiet her down inside, only to burn it all to the ground when it gets too close.

And Joel — quiet, hesitant, watching it all fall apart but still trying to hold the pieces in his hands. Still choosing to remember, even when forgetting might be easier.

The film doesn’t romanticize that cycle. It doesn’t try to clean up the mess. It just lets it exist. And that’s what hit me. How familiar it all felt — the pull to destroy and the desperation to preserve. The way you can long for connection and fear it at the exact same time.

What stood out to me more than the love story was the loneliness. The moments between moments. The empty spaces where identity slips through the cracks. Clementine’s hair color changing as her memories fade — that felt like a metaphor for how easily we lose sight of who we are. How memory doesn’t ask for permission when it leaves.

There’s something brutal and honest about the way Joel tries to hide her inside his other memories, like maybe if he tucks her somewhere safe, he won’t lose her. But he does. Of course he does.

Because that’s what the film knows: memory is not a safe. It’s not stable. It changes when we do.

And I think I grieved myself while watching it — not just lost relationships, but lost versions of me. The ones I let go of on purpose. The ones that slipped away without warning. The parts I didn’t know I was allowed to miss.

The scene on the frozen river — Clementine says,

“I could die right now, Joel. I’m just… happy.”

And it’s terrifying, because happiness that sharp always feels like a warning. I’ve felt that too. That ticking-clock kind of joy. The kind that already feels like a memory while it’s happening.

And then there’s Montauk — the beach house crumbling, everything falling apart, and Joel says,

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

And Clementine answers,

“Enjoy it.”

That line used to devastate me. Now it feels like the most honest thing in the world. We spend so much of our lives trying to hold on — to people, to feelings, to our own sense of control — and still, things fall away. Time moves. People leave. We change. That’s the deal.

What the film offered me wasn’t a resolution, but a kind of strange comfort: that even if you erase everything, some part of you will still remember what it felt like. Some part of you will always circle back to the things that mattered.

So yeah. I’ve been Clementine. I’ve been Joel. I’ve been the one who forgets and the one who desperately wants to remember. But mostly, I’ve been the person trying to find my way back to myself in the aftermath of it all.

And what I’ve learned — what this film helped me name — is that peace of mind isn’t something you find once and keep forever. It’s something you rebuild, memory by memory, even if some of them are gone. Even if some hurt. Even if none of it makes sense yet.

I’m learning to live with the erasures.

To love the parts of me that feel unfinished.

To enjoy it — not because it lasts, but because I get to feel it at all.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

⸻

Final Thoughts

The more I think about this film, the more I realize it mirrors something I’ve never really been able to put into words: how easy it is to lose yourself without meaning to. Not in one big moment, but slowly. Through all the things you don’t say. All the times you pretend you’re fine. All the ways you try to erase the parts of you that feel too loud or too soft or too complicated to be loved.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to be easier to hold. Trying to make myself smaller, simpler, more palatable. And I don’t blame anyone for that — I think I just got tired. Tired of being too much. Tired of the emotional mess I didn’t know how to organize. Tired of watching people leave when they saw the full picture.

But the truth is, I’ve left myself too. I’ve walked away from parts of me that were inconvenient or messy or hard to explain. And somewhere along the way, I started to forget what it felt like to feel at home in my own mind.

Watching Joel and Clementine — seeing them forget and remember and choose each other anyway — it made me wonder what it would look like to choose myself like that. To sit with the version of me I keep trying to outgrow or erase, and say, “Okay. I still want you here.”

I’m starting to understand that healing isn’t about erasing the past or fixing every part of myself that aches. It’s about letting the story stay messy. Letting the memories exist without shame. Letting myself feel joy without the fear that it won’t last — because of course it won’t. But that doesn’t make it any less real.

I don’t have it all figured out. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it’s enough that I’m still trying. Still remembering. Still showing up — imperfectly, but honestly.

And maybe that’s what coming home to yourself really means.

[waitingformontauk]

Morning Dread and the Quiet Hope of Outfits

Lately, the only thing pulling me out of bed before the world fully wakes is the memory of last night’s outfit planning. It’s more than just picking clothes—it’s a small ritual of preparation, a quiet intention. The simple act of gathering pieces I like, layering colors and textures without rush, gives me a sense of being ready, of holding something gentle for myself before the day arrives.

I didn’t plan this ritual. It wasn’t routine at first—I just started doing it. Then, a week later, I realized it had become a quiet anchor, a moment of calm before the chaos.

When I wake, my mind flickers on quickly, racing toward what’s ahead. But then I think about my outfit, and I envision it waiting for me on the dresser. In that moment, I’m grounded.

Yet, morning also carries a heavy chest, a weight I can’t shake. Anxiety lays beside me, tugging the blanket, pulling me deeper into dread. It feels like being asked to do too much, feeling like a disappointment to everyone I’ll meet—even though I can’t picture their faces clearly.

In those first moments, I rarely talk kindly to myself. When the voice comes, it is often one of shame, a tone heavy with defeat.

But if I could rewrite that voice, it would sound like birdsong and falling leaves, the gentle wash of ocean waves at night. It would say, “You have no reason to be scared, my love. One step at a time, you’ve done beautifully holding it together. You don’t have to do this forever.”

Other rituals soften the edges too: choosing what excites me without talk of doubt, walking away from what steals my peace by choice.

I dream of a perfect morning that feels like a slow vacation—waking early without demand, breathing deeply, journaling free-flow thoughts, washing my face, brushing my teeth. Then, music, a drink, a snack, catching up on a podcast or some drawing or stretching. Later, dedicating time to creative work—podcasts or open mic projects—held in that calm clarity.

Getting up early means clarity, lightness, calm before action. It represents my soul.

If I could whisper a message to myself at dawn, it would be like a hug I can melt into—a soft promise that I am held, that this moment, this day, does not have to be conquered all at once.

Maybe that small thread of hope — the quiet ritual of outfit planning — is enough to remind me I’m still here, still trying, still reaching for something gentle to hold onto.

Final Thoughts

Mornings aren’t always easy, and some days the weight feels too heavy to move through. But in those moments of quiet preparation—whether it’s choosing an outfit, breathing deeply, or simply imagining kindness—we build small havens inside ourselves. These rituals don’t erase the struggle, but they remind us that softness can live alongside strength.

There is no perfect way to greet the day. There is only the promise to show up gently, to honor where we are, and to trust that healing happens in the smallest of steps.

Today, and every day, may you find that thread of hope and hold it close. Because that is how we begin again.

[waitingformontauk]

The Resemblance

The Resemblance

When you can find the resemblance in something, you can write about anything. Everything starts to echo. The world folds in on itself and stretches back out again. Suddenly, the metaphor isn’t just a tool—it’s a survival mechanism. Suddenly the cup in the sink, the silence between texts, the aching space in your chest—they all start speaking.

Like paint thinner. That’s what came to mind first. Like something chemical poured over the inside of you, dissolving what you thought was solid. Like being thinned out, spread too far, like your own self is evaporating. Not all at once—just quietly. Subtly. A slow fade. Because you tried so hard to measure your hope. You thought if you kept it in the right shape, the right size, if you tucked it neatly under your ribs, if you didn’t ask for too much—it would protect you. But it doesn’t work that way.

I thought of another resemblance: an IV. I want an IV that slowly drips the life back into me. Not in some dramatic, flood-the-system kind of way. Just enough. Steady. Gentle. A quiet return. I don’t care if the needle hurts slipping in. I almost want it to hurt—as if pain is the proof of something being let back in. As if healing only counts if you feel it. There’s something holy about that. The sting. The surrender. The not-flinching.

And maybe that’s the turning point—when you stop trying to avoid the hard parts and start letting them sit beside you. When you stop resisting every dark thought and start watching them like birds passing overhead—not yours to keep, just yours to notice.

There’s beauty in that, too. Not in a romanticized way, but in the quiet kind of bravery it takes to stay. To feel it. To name it. To write it down. Because the world does widen when you let it hurt a little. When you stop editing the experience and start accepting it as it arrives.

Suddenly, your grief has a room to sit in. Your loneliness has a voice. Your hope, even half-starved and shivering, gets to speak. And in that space—where the painful parts become beautiful because you’ve stopped denying them—you can finally breathe. Not better. Not deeper. Just more honestly.

And that, I think, is enough.

Final thoughts

This piece is about learning to make sense of pain by naming it—by finding shapes and metaphors that can carry what your body can’t always speak aloud.

It’s about how easy it is to try to protect yourself with measured hope, as if precision could keep you from breaking. And about how, sometimes, the breaking still happens anyway.

But it’s also about the slow work of return. Not the glamorous kind of healing. Not the triumphant kind. The kind that drips in slowly. Quietly. The kind that still stings going in.

It’s about recognizing that staying present in your own experience—even the uncomfortable, even the messy—is a kind of sacred practice. That not flinching, not fleeing, is sometimes the most honest thing you can do.

You don’t need to turn pain into poetry to make it worthwhile. But if you can find the resemblance, if you can hold the ache gently enough to describe it, then you’ve already begun to turn toward yourself instead of away.

That’s what this was. A turning. A staying. A small, necessary return.

[waitingformontauk]

Where My Feet First Stood

Today I found myself staring at an old photo—the kind that doesn’t ask for attention, but quietly holds it.

It’s not a milestone. Not a birthday or graduation. Just two small imprints in concrete: my baby feet, side by side on the porch I grew up on.

Still there after all these years. Still waiting at the threshold of a house that watched me grow.

I don’t remember the moment they were made. I was too young to know what it meant to leave a mark. Someone must have gently held me over the wet cement—hoping, perhaps, that something soft and fleeting could last.

And somehow, it did.

When I look at them now, they feel more like memory than photograph. A memory I don’t have, but somehow still carry in my chest.

That porch was the edge of my world.

It’s where I learned gravity—how to fall, how to stand back up. Where rain blurred the yard into watercolor. Where I lined up bottle caps like treasure and made up rules to games no one else knew. It’s where I held a thousand small beginnings, unaware they were becoming the bones of who I am.

But the porch didn’t only hold innocence. It also held silence. The kind that hums beneath routine. The kind that teaches you to listen for tension behind closed doors. There were people in the house, but not always presence. Emotional absence doesn’t always look like neglect—it can look like meals on the table, clean floors, and yet still feel like no one sees you.

I learned early how to go unnoticed. How to read the air like weather. How to stay small so others wouldn’t break.

I became the quiet one. The keeper of peace. The one who felt everything and said nothing.

I carried more than I understood—and a loneliness that settled so early, I mistook it for normal.

So I left.

First in dreams, then in body.

I traded that porch for city streets, noisy rooms, blinking signs, places where no one knew my name. For a while, that anonymity felt like freedom. But distance has a way of softening pride. The farther I got, the more I missed the simplicity I used to overlook. Not the house itself, but the child I was before the armor. Before I learned to apologize for needing too much.

Those footprints remind me of her. Of who I was before shame. Before performance. Before I was told, in too many subtle ways, that tenderness was a liability.

And now, from where I stand, I can say this:

I’ve stopped waiting for apologies that will never come. I’ve learned to hold space for the girl I was—who held so much, who asked for so little. I’ve started offering myself the things I went too long without: patience, gentleness, understanding.

Those baby feet didn’t know what was coming. But they stood anyway. Soft. Certain. Brave.

Maybe that’s what courage really is—not the loud kind, but the kind that trusts the ground beneath it.

Final Thoughts

We think life is made of milestones, but I’m learning it’s the quiet things that shape us most. The overlooked, the ordinary. The small moments that don’t announce themselves but leave a mark anyway.

Those footprints aren’t just a relic of childhood. They’re a reminder of where I began—before opinions, before mistakes, before I tried to prove anything.

Just me. Brand new. Unafraid. Facing forward.

And I think, despite everything, I’m still that child in some way: Standing at the edge of the world. Carrying more than most. Still moving forward.

Step by step. Toward something softer. Toward something like home.

[waitingformontauk]

On Rooftops and the Things That Fade

I’ve been reminiscing again. Not just about the memories that happened, but the ones that never really stood a chance.

There’s this photo I took a couple years ago — a rooftop in Savannah, Georgia. I was meeting family I’d only just found out about, trying to process the weight of it all, holding myself together with whatever thread I had left. The photo doesn’t look like much at first glance: just a few empty chairs, some abandoned plants. But it struck me then, and it struck me again now. Something about the stillness, about the way the moment felt frozen — no wind, no sound, like even time had stepped away for a breath.

I wonder if anyone else notices it. Maybe someone sees that rooftop from their window and pauses, just for a second. Do they feel it too — the weight of what was, or what could’ve been? Do they remember the laughter that might’ve lived there, or the kind of silence that only exists between people who’ve known each other long enough to stop pretending? That quiet wrapped in cigarette smoke, the kind that moves slowly through the air, curling around ribs like a name you don’t say anymore but still feel when you’re alone.

Those chairs… they still hold the outline of presence. The plants, though faded, carry the ghost of someone once trying. That’s what got to me — the evidence of care, followed by the quiet of forgetting.

I used to be afraid of writing like this — too exposed, too soft around the edges. But lately I’ve been craving honesty over polish. Something about that rooftop made me realize how often we leave parts of ourselves in places we don’t mean to — a half-finished conversation, a laugh left hanging in the air, a version of ourselves we didn’t get to become.

That rooftop, with its stillness and surrender, held up a mirror. And in it, I saw the part of me that had been standing still too — quiet, weathered, still holding on to something even after it had faded.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now. Not to reclaim anything, not even to mourn it. Just to name it. To say that I saw it, I felt it, and for whatever reason, it mattered.

Sometimes I think that’s all we really need — for someone, even if it’s just ourselves, to say: Yes. That moment was real. That feeling meant something.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

[waitingformontauk]

When You Meet Yourself Again

starting to feel again:

Meeting yourself again is a strange, almost eerie thing. It doesn’t happen all at once, like a movie montage or a thunderclap of clarity. It creeps in slowly. One day, you catch yourself reacting differently. You notice a thought that feels foreign—until you realize it isn’t foreign at all. It’s just… you. The version of you that had been waiting behind walls you forgot you built.

You start to see the cracks first. The emotional calluses begin to peel. There’s discomfort in that—a kind of internal dissonance, like bumping into a familiar face in an unexpected place and not knowing whether to smile or look away.

And then it hits you: you’ve changed. Or maybe more accurately, you’ve returned. Returned from surviving, from suppressing, from shrinking yourself to fit spaces too small to hold your truth.

There’s grief in that realization. You begin to understand how much you’ve tolerated. How many moments you stayed silent when you needed to speak. How often you accepted things that chipped away at you, little by little. And most painful of all—how long you held power in your hands without recognizing it.

That kind of self-recognition doesn’t feel victorious at first. It feels frustrating. Like waking up and realizing the door was never locked. That you could have left sooner, spoken louder, lived fuller. It’s a mourning of time, of self-abandonment, of choices made in survival mode.

But underneath the frustration is something softer. Something real. A reclaiming. When the walls fall, you start to feel the ground again. You notice the sound of your own voice—unfiltered, unafraid. You begin to rewrite the rules. You take up space in your own life.

It’s not a clean process. It’s layered and slow. Some days you’ll feel strong. Other days, you’ll want to retreat to what’s familiar. But once you’ve met yourself again—truly met yourself—you can’t unsee who you are. And that’s where it begins.

Not with a bang, but with a quiet nod to the mirror. A subtle, powerful agreement to no longer abandon yourself.

This is the reunion. And it’s long overdue.

Final Thoughts

If you’re in the middle of this process—if you’re peeling back the layers, facing the ache, questioning the story—know this: you’re not late. You’re right on time.

There is no timeline for returning to yourself. No gold star for how fast you find your way back. The only thing that matters is that you do.

So keep going. Keep listening. Keep choosing yourself—over and over again, even when it’s hard, even when it’s quiet, even when no one else sees the work you’re doing.

Because you see it now.

And that’s where everything begins.

You’re not becoming someone new.

You’re remembering who you’ve been all along.

[waitingformontauk]

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Why I’m Tired, Still Hopeful, and Figuring Out Modern Love One Letdown at a Time

1. The Relationship That Set My Baseline

Let’s start with the basics: I was in a committed relationship all throughout what would’ve been my high school years. It was my first relationship, my first real introduction to love, and it shaped the way I viewed commitment, trust, and emotional intimacy.

Back then, things felt simple. You meet someone, you click, you build. There was no need for strategy or detachment. No apps. No games. Just connection. I thought I understood what dating was supposed to be. That belief—however naïve—became my blueprint.

2. Entering a New World, Unprepared

When that relationship ended, I stepped out into a world that had completely changed while I wasn’t looking. Suddenly, dating wasn’t about emotional connection—it was about algorithms, swipes, curated images, casual talk, and avoiding vulnerability at all costs.

since then I’ve been trying to catch up. Trying to understand social dynamics, hidden rules, and the invisible threads that connect everyone while somehow keeping everyone emotionally unavailable. Even after going on countless dates, I still feel like a rookie. Because this isn’t about practice—it’s about unlearning everything I thought love was supposed to be.

3. The Dating App Fatigue Is Real

I’m so tired of dating apps.

Tired of pretending that picking a partner should feel like browsing for shoes online. Tired of trying to squeeze genuine chemistry into a carefully worded bio. Tired of the endless scroll, the casual conversations that go nowhere, and the underlying pressure to market myself like a product.

I don’t want to be selected like a thumbnail. I want to be seen. I crave those organic, spontaneous moments—the kind where someone approaches me in real life, with good intentions I can actually feel. Where connection doesn’t need a WiFi signal or a swipe to start.

4. Dream Moments That Turn Into Disappointments

And sometimes, those dreamlike moments do happen. A glance across the room. A conversation that flows naturally. That intoxicating spark of chemistry that makes you believe—this could be it.

But then it falls apart. You hear from a friend, or you see it for yourself: that person wasn’t who they pretended to be. Maybe they were charming, yes. But also manipulative. Or emotionally reckless. Or just plain disrespectful.

That’s the real heartbreak—not the end of the potential, but the betrayal of the hope you gave so freely.

5. The Emotional Cost of Dating Today

After a while, the problem isn’t the dates themselves—it’s what they take from you.

Every disappointing encounter chips away at your energy. The optimism you had before the first text. The effort you put into choosing the right outfit, the right words, the right balance of “interested but not too eager.” The emotional labor adds up, and eventually you start asking yourself: Is it even worth it anymore?

You start doubting your instincts. You wonder if you’re asking for too much just by wanting something real. You question whether the kind of connection you’re looking for even exists in a world where people are too scared—or too distracted—to go deep.

6. Chemistry Can Be Faked (And Often Is)

Let’s talk about chemistry.

It’s rare. It’s magic. But it can also be faked. And in today’s dating world, there are plenty of people who know exactly how to imitate it. They mirror your energy, reflect your emotions, and say just enough of the right things to spark something inside you—only to vanish the moment things get real.

That kind of deception cuts deep. Because it doesn’t just disappoint you—it makes you question whether you’ll ever trust your own judgment again.

7. Why I’m Still Showing Up With Heart

But here’s what I’ve come to realize: being tired doesn’t mean I’ve given up. It just means I’ve grown wiser.

I still believe in connection. The kind that doesn’t require a performance. The kind that feels like breathing after holding your breath for too long. And I still believe that when the right person shows up, they won’t just impress me—they’ll relieve me.

Because they’ll match my depth, not my exhaustion.

Being someone who still feels, still hopes, still shows up with heart in a world that rewards detachment? That’s not weakness. That’s power. That’s rare.

8. The Truth About Losing a Girl in 10 Seconds

Want to know how to lose a girl in 10 seconds?

Be disingenuous. Fake interest. Love-bomb her with charm you never intended to back up. Or worse—make her feel seen, then disappear. Because women like me? We don’t fall for looks or pickup lines. We fall for presence. For intention. For effort that doesn't fade.

And if you can’t bring that? Don’t be surprised when we walk away just as fast as you showed up.

Final Thought:

I’d rather lose people quickly for the right reasons than lose myself trying to hold on to the wrong ones.

So yeah, I’m still tired. But I’m also still here—heart open, eyes wide, and done pretending that I should want anything less than something real.

[waitingformontauk]

How Memory Sticks

When I was a kid, I’d go over to my friend’s grandma’s house. I loved that house—it had the bones of a true home. There were old, tarnished wheels outside by the white stairs that led up to the porch, where rocking chairs and flower pots sat quietly. That porch was where we shared so many ice pops after running wild around the yard.

Inside, there were side tables and a beautiful entertainment center that held mail, family trinkets, and the kind of clutter that tells you people really live there. Then came the kitchen—with a round table you’d pass on your way in. My favorite part was how long yet narrow it was. It felt like the perfect size back then. I think there was a pretty window by the sink.

To get out back, you’d go right, but to your right were the stairs leading up to the attic, which had been turned into a single bedroom. Outside, there was the frame of an old trampoline. I was in gymnastics at the time, so of course, I was obsessed with that damn frame.

We’d hide to the left of the house during hide and seek, eat snacks, and talk for hours. There weren’t many trees in the backyard, but out front stood this huge one—maybe the prettiest tree I’ve ever seen. It sat front and center, just barely blocking the view of the house. If you touched it, your hands would come away sticky. Tree sap was everywhere.

Me and my friend would use anything we could find to scrape up as much of it as we could. And I’m writing this now because I remembered that tree today. I had a thought: how that sap was so tacky, it could’ve acted like glue—like something strong enough to hold fractured pieces together. To mend the broken.

I worked so hard to gather all I could, and still, I lost it all. But maybe that’s the thing about memory—it sticks in places we don’t expect. Maybe that tree taught me something without me even knowing it. That even when things slip through your hands, some part of it stays. Maybe what’s lost isn’t really gone, just changed. Shifted.

And maybe that’s the solution—not fixing everything, not going back—but learning how to live with the cracks. How to carry the sticky, shining pieces forward. How to hold what you can, and let the rest soften into something new.

Final Thoughts:

It’s strange how one small moment—a tree, some sap, the echo of a childhood afternoon—can suddenly bring clarity in adulthood. Memory doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives when it wants to, and it often shows us what we didn’t know we needed to remember. If you’ve ever looked back and felt both the ache and the sweetness of what used to be, know that you’re not alone. What matters is not trying to gather it all perfectly, but finding the strength to carry what sticks—and letting the rest become part of the story that’s still unfolding.

[waitingformontauk]

The Poet in Me:

Rediscovering the Art of Life

It had been a while since I wrote just for the sake of writing.

Lately, I’ve been reading a book called The Art of Life. It’s beautiful, and it holds my attention in a way that nothing else has for a long time. I love how it draws from everyday life; the simplest comparisons somehow reveal deeper truths. That kind of clarity resonated with me.

For a long time, I had been closed off. I felt like I had killed the poet in me. I know that might have sounded dramatic, but it was how it felt. I didn’t understand anymore why I used to love watching streetlights flicker on and off. It had become harder to see the beauty in the world around me because I had shut myself off from feeling anything beyond myself.

There was a quote from the book that struck me: “So deeply, though, that harmony inside shines out—in a way it wouldn’t if you looked outward first and then studied. An art cannot be learned from looking out; it is a gift that comes from looking in—at yourself.”

It reminded me that maybe I had been looking the wrong way. Maybe the poet in me wasn’t dead—maybe they had just been waiting for me to look inward again.

I wanted to explain why this shift happened, but the truth is, I don’t know the exact moment it did. Still, I understood why I shut that part of myself down—it was to protect myself. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work. It did. It kept me safe. But it also erased everything I once admired about myself. It closed me off from ever experiencing anything beyond what I had simply learned to endure.

Eventually, I realized I no longer needed that level of protection. I had learned not to allow myself to be treated in the ways that once made that protection necessary. I had learned to recognize what I wanted from this world—and how to respect that. I wasn’t going to hurt myself again—not by shutting down—but by knowing when to walk away from what no longer served me.

It’s terrifying to let go of what I know like the back of my hand—even when I know those lessons came from pain. It’s hard to unlearn survival when I’ve worn it like skin. But I was trying. And maybe, just maybe, that was where it all started.

Because this process—one that has not yet reached its completion—builds a kind of strength that can’t be broken. It’s empowering to truly know myself—so deeply that I began to wonder how I had ever lived without that awareness. And in that reflection, I realized something simple but profound:

I was proud of myself. I was learning how to let go.

Final Thoughts:

Writing this was a reminder that growth isn’t linear. We all have our moments of retreat, of protection, of hiding from the world and ourselves. But those moments don’t define us. What matters is the choice to begin looking inward, to remember the parts of ourselves we’ve left behind, and to reclaim them.

Are you on a similar journey? What’s something you’ve let go of, or are still learning to let go of? Think about it.