“Things I Never Told Myself”

I used to lie to myself all the time.

Not the big lies—the ones that cause earthquakes.

I told the soft lies.

The ones that pile up like dust under furniture, unnoticed until they choke the air.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I can handle it.”

I whispered them like mantras, like spells meant to keep me together.

Because breaking felt worse than pretending.

I never told myself the truth—that I was tired.

Tired in my bones, in my smile, in the way I showed up for people who never showed up for me.

Tired of being the strong one.

Tired of feeling invisible when the room got loud.

I didn’t admit that I was afraid.

Afraid of becoming a version of myself I wouldn’t recognize.

Afraid that I’d pour out so much of who I was trying to be “enough” that I’d forget who I actually was.

I never told myself that it was okay to be angry.

To feel let down.

To not always be graceful.

I thought anger made me weak.

I didn’t know it could be honest.

There were so many things I never said aloud.

Because I thought they made me selfish.

Or dramatic.

Or worse—too much.

But silence doesn’t erase truth.

It just buries it deeper.

And buried things don’t stay still forever.

They grow roots.

They twist into your thoughts and bloom in your quietest moments.

I remember one night—I was staring at my reflection, exhausted after pretending all day.

Pretending to be okay.

Pretending to laugh when my chest was heavy.

Pretending I didn’t want someone to ask, “Are you really doing alright?” and mean it.

And I looked at myself—not just my face, but really into myself—and said:

“You’re not okay.

And that’s okay.”

It was the first time I felt honest in months.

I cried for twenty minutes.

Not because I was broken.

But because I was finally telling the truth.

The next day wasn’t magic.

Nothing changed overnight.

But something shifted.

It felt like I had opened a door inside myself.

A place where I could sit with all the parts I’d been hiding.

My sadness.

My guilt.

My fear.

My dreams.

I started writing again.

Not for others—for myself.

Just pages and pages of messy, tangled thoughts.

Not trying to sound wise. Not trying to impress.

Just… being real.

I wrote letters I never sent.

To the people who hurt me.

To the people I hurt.

To the version of me that I left behind when I thought being “liked” mattered more than being me.

I said things like:

“I wish I had stood up for myself sooner.”

“I forgive you, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“I miss you, but I don’t want you back.”

“I’m learning to love me without needing you to first.”

No one prepared me for how hard it would be to rebuild myself honestly.

To say no.

To rest without guilt.

To admit when I needed help.

To stop shrinking so other people could feel big.

It’s messy work.

Sometimes I still fall into old patterns.

Sometimes I still lie a little.

But the difference is—I catch myself.

And I correct the story.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I try to speak kindly.

Even when I’m tired.

Even when I feel behind.

Even when I don’t love what I see.

Because I’ve learned that the longest relationship I’ll ever have is with myself.

And I don’t want to spend it pretending.

So this is what I’m learning to say:

🌱 “You are not a burden.”

🌱 “You don’t need to earn rest.”

🌱 “You are allowed to outgrow people, places, and versions of yourself.”

🌱 “Healing is not a straight line.”

🌱 “You are doing better than you think.”

There are still things I haven’t told myself.

Truths I’m still afraid of.

But I’ve stopped running from the conversation.

Because honesty is the beginning of peace.

And I want peace more than I want perfection.