Loving Myself Like I Wished They Had

Healing didn’t arrive in a burst of clarity or with poetic timing. It crept in slowly—quiet, awkward, and uninvited. It wasn’t glamorous. It was survival, turned inward.

For most of my life, I gave freely—time, love, energy, presence. I gave until I was empty, assuming that if I just loved harder, stayed longer, or became more useful, someone would finally stay. Someone would finally choose me. But no one did. Not really. Not in the way I needed. And that’s when I broke. Not loudly, not dramatically, but silently. The strong one always does.

I reached my limit. There was nothing left to pour into others, because I had abandoned myself for so long that even I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. She looked tired. Not just physically, but soul-tired. The kind of tired that comes from begging to be seen while pretending not to care.

And in that stillness—the one that comes after you’ve exhausted every version of people-pleasing and emotional labor—I faced something terrifying: There was no one left to save me but me.

I used to equate love with sacrifice. The more I gave, the more worthy I thought I became. I romanticized pain, thinking it was a currency that would one day buy me the loyalty I craved. It never did.

So I stopped.

I stopped waiting for someone to choose me.

I stopped shrinking to make room for others.

I stopped apologizing for needing, feeling, breaking.

And I began choosing me.

At first, it was uncomfortable. Choosing myself felt selfish. Indulgent. Wrong. But I kept going. I whispered new truths into my cracked places:

“You are not too much.

”“You don’t have to earn love.”

“You are worthy—not because of what you give, but because of who you are.”

And those whispers turned into beliefs. Those beliefs became actions. And slowly, those actions became a life.

I started giving myself what I kept waiting for: I listened to myself without judgment. I comforted myself when I was overwhelmed. I protected my energy like it was sacred—because it is. I stopped chasing people who were emotionally unavailable. I allowed myself to rest, cry, feel, and not explain it to anyone. I began loving myself the way I wished they had. Consistently. Unconditionally. Without expecting me to break first.

I began mothering the parts of me that felt abandoned. I nurtured the version of me that stayed quiet just to keep peace. I gave space to the little girl inside who wanted to be held, not fixed. And I realized: she didn’t need fixing. She needed choosing. So I chose her. Every day. Every moment I felt unworthy, I reminded her that she is. Because she’s me.

The healing wasn’t linear. Some days, I still longed for the familiar ache of being needed. But the difference now? I didn’t sacrifice myself to feel significant. I created significance by staying. By showing up for myself when it would’ve been easier to disappear into someone else’s expectations. I no longer needed a hero. I became my own.

Loving myself like I wished they had meant: Saying no, even when my voice shook. Walking away from half-love. No longer performing strength when I needed softness. Creating space for my messiness, my truth, my becoming. And somewhere in the middle of all that letting go, I found something I’d been searching for in everyone else: Peace.

If you’re reading this and still waiting to be chosen, hear me:

Stop waiting. Start choosing. Choose the version of you that is raw and beautiful and trying. Choose the healing over the pretending. Choose the messy, magnificent process of becoming. Because you are not too broken. You are not too much. You are not behind. You are simply on your way back to you. And that is the most beautiful love story you will ever live.

And when you do choose you, over and over again, something magical happens: You stop needing others to validate your worth, because you’re finally giving yourself everything you once begged for.