Learning to Be Enough for Myself

In the depths of my mind, chaos resides

Thoughts intertwine, like a turbulent ride

I fell as if eyes judge my every move Whispers of gossip, my spirit they bruise

Yearning for love, acceptance so deep

To be seen for who I am, secrets to keep

Connecting with others, a challenge quest

Feeling forever young, not like the rest

I crave companionship, friendship’s embrace

Yet fear lingers, will they tire of my space?

Fighting to show life’s beauty and worth

While struggling to find reasons for my own mirth

Do they truly want me, or just feel obliged

To be part of my life, where loneliness resides?

Solitude doesn’t bother, I find solace there

But must I always wander, with none to share?

Is it my destiny to never find true love

To forever feel misunderstood, unloved?

These thoughts may haunt, but remember this truth

You’re worthy of love, despite inner ruth

Seek within, find strength and self-belief

Embrace your uniqueness, your spirit’s relief

For in time, connections will cone anew

And you’ll find acceptance, from those who are true

I’m not sure my thoughts will ever be considered “normal.” I’ve lived through too much. Experienced too much. And somewhere along the way, I internalized the idea that I, too, am just too much—too emotional, too intense, too broken for most people to handle.

The more I open up and share my truth, the more vulnerable I feel. What starts as honesty often spirals into anxiety. Did I say too much? Do they think I’m crazy? Are they being kind out of obligation or manipulation? I know that kind of thinking sounds like paranoia—but when you grow up in an environment where love came with strings and trust was weaponized, hypervigilance becomes a survival skill.

I also recognize that I’ve been the one to end most of my relationships—directly or indirectly. I push people away before they get a chance to reject me. I self-sabotage because if they leave on my terms, at least it hurts a little less. It’s not fair to me or them, but it’s a pattern I’m finally starting to unravel.

Right now, I’m doing the deep, uncomfortable work—looking at my “mother wounds,” unpacking the core beliefs I developed about myself from a chaotic childhood. Beliefs like: love has to be earned. You’re only worthy if you’re useful. You’ll always be too much or not enough.

Every day, I crave connection a little less. Life has shaped me into someone who finds safety in solitude. I’ve learned to recognize when my body is tense, when my thoughts spiral, when I need to step away from people and just breathe. Isolation isn’t always healthy, but for me, it’s often the only way I know how to feel my emotions fully.

I’ve also learned to stop looking outward for rescue. Asking for help hasn’t worked out well for me in the past—it’s met with silence, disappointment, or worse, shame. So now, I rely on God first, my therapist next, and then myself. And I’m learning to trust my gut. My intuition has been my protector for a long time, even when I’ve let others talk me out of it. It’s not always right—but it’s rarely wrong.

Connection still matters to me, but I’m more discerning now. I don’t invite people into my life because I need them. I do it because I want them there. That’s a powerful shift.

I’ve survived enough to know that I can rely on myself. I’ve learned that I can do almost anything I set my mind to. So if you find yourself in my life—in whatever capacity—it’s not out of desperation. It’s choice. And for someone who’s spent most of their life feeling powerless, that choice means everything.