Ameer Moavia
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Stories (42)
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Why We Love People Who Hurt Us
Maya's phone lit up at 2:47 a.m. with a text from Daniel: "I miss you. I'm sorry. Can we talk?" She should have deleted it. Should have blocked his number months ago. Should have learned after the third time he'd disappeared without explanation, only to return with apologies and promises. Instead, her heart leaped. Relief flooded through her. He came back. He still wants me. By 3:15 a.m., she'd responded. By morning, they'd be back together. Again. And Maya would tell herself this time would be different, even though some part of her—some quiet, exhausted part she kept trying to silence—knew it wouldn't be. Daniel would be loving for a week, maybe two. Attentive, affectionate, everything Maya had been craving. Then slowly, he'd start pulling away. Texts would go unanswered. Plans would be canceled. He'd become cold, distant, critical of small things. Maya would panic. Try harder. Become smaller, more agreeable, desperate to bring back the version of Daniel who'd made her feel so wanted. She'd apologize for things that weren't her fault. Change herself to accommodate his shifting moods. Walk on eggshells trying not to trigger his withdrawal. And eventually, he'd leave again. Ghost her for weeks. Then return with another 2 a.m. text. And the cycle would repeat. Maya's friends couldn't understand it. "Why do you keep going back to him? He treats you terribly. You deserve better." Maya knew they were right. She knew Daniel was hurting her. Knew the relationship was toxic. Knew she should walk away and never look back. But she couldn't. Because as much as Daniel hurt her, she loved him. Desperately, painfully, irrationally loved him. And she had no idea why she couldn't stop.
By Ameer Moavia12 days ago in Motivation
The Year She Forgot How to Be Around People
Emma had been alone for 347 days when she realized she'd forgotten how to have a conversation. It wasn't intentional isolation. It started with the pandemic—everyone retreated into their separate spaces, and Emma's one-bedroom apartment became the entire universe. Then her remote job eliminated the casual water cooler chats. Her best friend moved across the country. Her weekly book club dissolved. One by one, the threads connecting her to other humans frayed and snapped. And Emma told herself she was fine. She had video calls sometimes. She texted people. She scrolled through social media seeing everyone else's lives. She wasn't truly alone. But when her neighbor knocked on her door to ask about a package delivery, Emma opened her mouth to respond and the words came out wrong. Stilted. Like she'd forgotten the rhythm of human speech. "I... yes. The package. It's... I haven't..." She couldn't form a complete sentence. Her neighbor looked at her with concern, and Emma felt a wave of panic. What was happening to her? After he left, Emma sat on her couch and tried to remember the last real conversation she'd had. Not a transactional exchange with a delivery person or a scripted work call, but an actual spontaneous human interaction. She couldn't remember. And when she tried to imagine having one now, her brain short-circuited. The social scripts she'd once known automatically—how to read facial expressions, when to laugh, how to know when it was her turn to talk—felt like a foreign language she'd once been fluent in but had somehow forgotten. Emma wasn't just lonely anymore. Loneliness had physically changed her brain. And she had no idea how to change it back.
By Ameer Moavia12 days ago in Psyche
When Silence Hurts More Than Words
Mia grew up in a quiet house. Her parents never screamed. Never threw things. Never called each other names or slammed doors. To anyone looking from the outside, they were the picture of civility—calm, controlled, perfectly composed.
By Ameer Moavia13 days ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Emotional Neglect
Sophie was eight years old when she stopped crying. Not because she stopped hurting. But because she'd finally learned what her parents had been teaching her all along: her pain was an inconvenience they didn't want to deal with. She'd fallen off her bike that afternoon, scraped her knee badly enough that blood soaked through her jeans. She'd run inside, tears streaming, looking for comfort. Her mother was on a work call. She'd glanced at Sophie, held up one finger—wait—and continued talking. Sophie stood there, bleeding and crying, while her mother discussed quarterly projections as if her daughter wasn't falling apart three feet away. After twenty minutes, her mother finally hung up. "What happened?" "I fell. It really hurts." Her mother barely looked at the wound. "You're fine. Go clean it up. I have another call in five minutes." Sophie went to the bathroom alone. Cleaned the wound alone. Bandaged it alone. And something inside her went quiet. My pain doesn't matter. My needs are a burden. If I want to be loved, I need to stop needing things. She didn't think those words consciously. She was eight. But her nervous system absorbed the lesson completely: To be acceptable, I must need nothing. By the time Sophie was ten, she'd perfected the art of emotional self-sufficiency. She stopped running to her parents when she was hurt, scared, or sad. Stopped sharing her excitement because they seemed annoyed by her enthusiasm. Stopped asking for help because they were always too busy. She became the "easy child." The one who didn't cause problems. The one who took care of herself. Her parents praised this. "Sophie is so independent," they'd tell relatives. "She never needs anything from us." They said it like it was a good thing. Like self-sufficiency at ten years old was maturity instead of survival. What they didn't see—what they never asked about—was the little girl inside who'd learned that her emotional needs were unwelcome. Who'd concluded that love was conditional on not requiring emotional support. Who'd started building walls around her heart to protect herself from the pain of reaching out and being ignored. Sophie wasn't independent. She was neglected. And she'd learned to call it strength.
By Ameer Moavia13 days ago in Psyche
Why Some People Feel Alone Even in Relationships
Lena woke up next to her husband of seven years and felt like a stranger was sleeping beside her. Not because Tom had changed. But because somewhere between the wedding and this Tuesday morning, they'd stopped being two people who knew each other and become two people who lived in the same house.
By Ameer Moavia13 days ago in Psyche
The Psychology of Losing Yourself While Pleasing Others
The Woman Who Forgot Her Own Name Rachel stood in the grocery store for eleven minutes, staring at yogurt. Her husband preferred strawberry. Her daughter liked vanilla. Her son would only eat the kind with cartoon characters on the lid. Her mother-in-law, visiting this weekend, had mentioned she was trying to eat more protein.
By Ameer Moavia14 days ago in Psyche
When Confidence Is Just a Mask for Fear
The Man Who Never Let Anyone See Him Sweat Jordan walked into the boardroom like he owned it. Shoulders back, chin up, that easy smile that suggested he'd done this a thousand times before. He made eye contact with each person at the table—firm, confident, just long enough to signal certainty without aggression.
By Ameer Moavia14 days ago in Psyche
Why Some People Apologize Even When They’re Not Wrong
Emma said "sorry" seventeen times before noon. Sorry for asking a question in the meeting. Sorry for walking through a door someone was holding. Sorry for her email being too long. Sorry for her email being too short. Sorry for needing to use the bathroom during a Zoom call. Sorry for existing in spaces that other people also existed in.
By Ameer Moavia14 days ago in Psyche
