There are parts of me that never had a chance to grow roots. Parts that were always too tired from trying, too used to being unwanted to ever feel safe enough to settle in. I’ve spent most of my life being the one people tolerate in the moment, someone they can lean on temporarily—until they no longer need to. I never felt like anyone was really on my side. I was just there. A convenience. A shadow that made others feel seen. And because I didn’t have a voice growing up—because I was always somehow “too much” or “in the way”—the only inner voice I developed was a cruel one. Cold. Blunt. Ruthless.

I tried. God, I tried. I gave everything I had to being good enough, lovable enough, useful enough. But it always ended the same: I was rejected. Or invisible. Or used. And so I stopped trying to speak up for myself, because no one ever listened. The silence felt more familiar than hope.

And now I’m standing in the middle of my own becoming. I don’t have confidence yet—not really. It’s something I’m still learning to build for myself, brick by fragile brick. But I have this raw, unkillable part of me that just won’t let me give up. No matter how dark it gets, no matter how many times I fall into that same hole, I climb out. A little scraped. A little bruised. But always—always—I come back to the surface.

I’m learning to say no to things that hurt. To people who don’t respect me. To environments that twist me out of shape. Sometimes I still stumble back into old patterns, because pain can be familiar in a sick, strange way. But I catch myself quicker now. I breathe. I remind myself that I’m not there anymore. I’m not helpless anymore. I can walk away now.

I let myself feel everything. The grief. The rage. The panic. I don’t shove it down anymore—I let it wash through me, because every emotion is a message, and every panic attack is a doorway to something that was hidden. There are traumas buried so deep they can only be reached through the tremors. And if I want to truly heal, I have to let myself feel them. Fully. With tenderness and courage.

I still have moments where I snap. Where my nervous system screams and I forget everything I’ve learned. But then I breathe deep and come back. I speak to myself the way I wish someone had spoken to me as a child: “It’s okay. You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to be human.” I remind myself that I am not a machine built for perfection. I am a soul in transformation.

There is a quiet trust growing inside me. A knowing that if the Universe didn’t want me here, I wouldn’t be. I may not know the “why” yet, but I no longer believe that I’m just a mistake. There’s something inside me that matters. Something only I can offer. Even if no one sees it yet, even if I don’t see it clearly—I’m starting to believe that my existence is intentional.

It’s not a clean path. Healing never is. I still hear that old voice in my head. The one that tells me I’m nothing. The one that tries to convince me I’m a burden, that I’ll never be loved the way I need. But I’ve learned to talk back. I’ve learned to say, “No. Not today.” And sometimes, that’s enough.

You can’t kill a shadow. But you can learn to dance with it. You can learn to take its hand and pull it into the light.

I don’t promise myself perfection. I promise myself persistence. That I won’t give up. That I can fall flat on my face and still rise again. That  every time I return, I come back stronger—more honest, more whole.

Because I know now: I deserve peace. I deserve softness. I deserve to take up space. Even if I’m still learning how.

If you’re reading this, if you’ve ever felt like the world just doesn’t make space for the way you feel, for the depth of your emotions, for your quiet attempts at surviving—please know, you are not alone.

Even if it feels like no one’s on your side, even if you were never given a voice growing up, even if you’ve spent your life being the “too much” or the “not enough”—I see you. I am you.

And you don’t have to be perfect to deserve better. You just have to want it. That moment you say to yourself, “I don’t want to live like this anymore,”—that’s already a victory. That’s the spark. And yes, you will fall again. You might fall a thousand times. But you can always rise again. That rising? That’s your power.

Find someone to walk with you—whether it’s a friend, a therapist, or even words like these. Let someone remind you, when you forget, that you do matter. That your softness isn’t weakness. That your pain isn’t your identity. That healing isn’t a straight line, but it’s always, always worth the climb.

You don’t have to do it alone. And you’re not broken. You’re becoming.

Love,

Sofy🐻