One of my earliest memories is being yelled at by my father for wetting the bed. I was just a child. I didn’t know what I was doing. My body did things I couldn’t control, and instead of comfort, I was met with shouting. Morning after morning, I’d wake up not just in wet sheets, but in fear.

My mom was always working, and nobody really taught me how to take care of myself. I felt like I had to figure everything out on my own, trying to guess what “normal” even was. I remember hearing stories about myself that painted me as “too much” or “not enough” in all the wrong ways. I tried to become better. But it was heavy, lonely, and so, so confusing.

Looking back, I can see that my father’s voice, that angry, loud, shaming tone, became my inner voice too. It wasn’t just him anymore. It was me, talking to myself like I was stupid, like I was a burden. That voice has followed me for years.

And shame… shame has shaped my whole personality.
I try not to be too happy or too excited, because somehow it makes people uncomfortable.
I try not to be too smart, because if I speak up and I’m wrong, I feel like I’ll be seen as dumb again.
I stay quiet even when I know the answer.
Even my husband once said I’m not the smartest and that sentence echoes in my mind more than I’d like to admit.

There’s this deep fear in me: that everything I think is wrong.
That my thoughts don’t make sense.
That my memory is broken.
That no matter what I say or do, I’ll mess it up.
And honestly? That has been true so many times in my life, it’s hard to argue with that belief.
So I started expecting it, that others would see me the same way. That I’m not good enough. Not intelligent enough. That I’m someone people simply tolerate.

When something goes wrong, even something small, I panic.
I freeze.
Tears rise.
I shut down and go completely quiet.

And the thoughts follow:
“You think wrong.”
“You’re dumb.”
“Just be quiet.”
“You’re useless.”
“Nothing you say is ever helpful.”
“No one will ever respect you.”

It hurts. And I wouldn’t say these things to anyone else. But I say them to myself. Over and over. Until I start to believe they’re facts.

Do you know what it feels like to live your whole life thinking you’re not smart enough to even be in a conversation?

It’s excruciating. Because I want to connect. I want to talk. I want to feel like I belong. But so often, I just… don’t. I feel like the dumbest person in the room. Even in groups, I shrink myself so I don’t embarrass others with my words. Sometimes even with my partner, I stay quiet because I don’t want him to feel ashamed of me.

So I stay alone. Not because I hate people, but because being alone hurts less.
Because when I’m alone, I don’t feel like a burden.
Because when I’m alone, I can just be.
And yet, even there, shame follows. Like a shadow whispering, “You’re only alone because no one wants you around.”

There’s a voice in me that says, “Eventually they’ll leave. Eventually they’ll see who you really are. Eventually, they’ll prefer you gone.”

I’m tired. Tired of being the person who’s always wrong. Tired of trying to prove I’m worth listening to. Tired of the masks. Tired of holding back everything I am.

And yet, I am learning.
I’m learning to soften that voice inside me.
I’m learning that my worth isn’t measured by how right or wrong I am.
I’m learning to be kinder to the little girl who only needed safety, not punishment.

Shame doesn’t vanish overnight.
But I think healing begins when we speak the words we were never allowed to say out loud.

And this, this post, is me saying them.