What If I’m the Problem?

It’s a hard question to ask yourself: *What if I’m the problem?* Not them. Not your family. Not your friends. Not the world. But you.

It creeps up slowly, in quiet moments. Maybe it’s after another event where you weren’t invited, another message left unanswered, another birthday that didn’t feel like it mattered. And your first instinct is to say, “Here we go again. No one cares. They never remember me. I’m always left out.” But then a softer, scarier voice follows up with, *“But what if it’s me?”*

What if it’s not that they’re cold? What if it’s not that they don’t care? What if it’s that I’ve become so used to seeing myself as the outsider that I no longer know how to let people in?

That’s where it starts — the deep self-reflection. The uncomfortable realization that maybe the pattern isn't always caused by others. Maybe I’m too quick to spot rejection. Too sensitive to silence. Too ready to assume the worst. Maybe I’ve taught myself to see the world as a place where I don’t belong, and now everything that happens only confirms that story.

And maybe, in doing that, I’ve become the one who pushes people away.

It’s hard to admit, because being the victim can feel comforting in a strange way. It gives you something to hold onto. It gives you a reason for the hurt. “They hurt me.” “They don’t care.” “They never try.” It sounds fair. It even sounds familiar. But what if that’s not always the full truth?

People aren’t mind readers. They don’t always know what’s happening beneath your silence. They don’t know that when you withdraw, it’s because you’re hurt. They can’t read your sighs, your quiet, your distance. They can’t decode your feelings if you never give them the chance. You say, “They should know,” but should they? Or have you created a habit of emotional hiding that makes it impossible for anyone to reach you?

What if I’ve become entitled in my pain? Expecting others to chase me, check on me, know exactly what to say and when — while I make little to no effort to open up, to meet them halfway, or to understand their side?

The truth is, sometimes I may have fooled myself into believing I’ve been wronged, when all along, I’ve just been afraid. Afraid to be vulnerable. Afraid to ask. Afraid to need. Afraid to admit I pushed people away before they had the chance to walk.

And maybe I’ve done it so long that I don’t know how to stop.

But here’s the thing — realizing you might be the problem doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you brave. It means you’re finally willing to look in the mirror and see beyond the layers of self-protection you’ve built. It means you’re not hiding anymore.

So what do you do when you realize that you’ve been the one standing in your own way?

First, you breathe. You don’t drown in guilt. You don’t spiral into self-hate. You just breathe and say: *Okay. This is where I am. It’s not where I want to stay.*

Second, you take accountability. Not the performative kind where you say sorry just to make things right, but the honest kind — the kind where you truly acknowledge that your silence, your defensiveness, your distance played a role in how others responded to you.

Third, you begin to speak. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But you try. You open up to one person. You admit how you’ve been feeling. You tell someone what you need, even if it feels awkward. You give people the information they never had — not because they failed you, but because you never gave them a chance to really know you.

And finally, you forgive yourself. For the years you spent in survival mode. For the connections you lost. For the chances you missed. You forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn’t know.

Because healing isn’t about getting it right all the time. It’s about being willing to see yourself clearly — even when it hurts — and choosing to grow anyway.

We don’t talk enough about the weight of carrying a victim mindset. It’s heavy. It convinces you that you’re powerless, unloved, and forgotten. It becomes a lens through which you see everything and everyone. But it’s not truth. It’s just a lens. And it can be taken off — slowly, gently, painfully — but it *can* be removed.

So maybe today, instead of asking, “Why don’t they see me?” — you ask, “Have I been showing myself?”

Instead of asking, “Why do they keep hurting me?” — you ask, “Have I told them where it hurts?”

What if I’m the problem?

Then that means I’m also the solution.