I am shedding the need to be understood, peeling off the layers of over-explaining, and softening the urge to convince anyone that I’m worth staying for. I don’t crave being liked the way I used to. I won’t twist myself to be digestible.
There’s comfort now in the solitude. Not the aching kind, but the kind that feels like a deep exhale. Like coming home to myself.
Isn’t it funny? To create the life you once begged the universe for? If I don’t stop to remind myself, I’ll forget how far I’ve come. From questioning why I wasn’t enough, to now knowing the way someone makes me feel is far more important than whether they find me comfortable or not. From crying on bathroom floors, begging for men to love me, to feeling so sure of who and what I am, no one can take that away from me. From settling for lukewarm, could’ve-been-a-lifetime-of-fine love, to unwilling to accept anything less than the kind of love elementary school me dreamt about. From anxiety and masks to peace and solace.
Growth comes in waves, and I am still finding my way. But isn’t it beautiful to watch yourself become.