I’m Not Healing to Be Better for You—I’m Healing to Come Home to Me

I’m not healing to be better for you. I’m healing to come home to me.

There was a version of me who waited at the window.

She waited for the text that never came. For the apology that was owed but never spoken. For someone—anyone—to look her in the eyes and say, “I see you. All of you. And I’m not leaving.”

But they always left.

They left with my softness tucked into their pockets, with my light in their hands, with my voice unraveling behind them like a ribbon I didn’t realize I’d tied to their wrist. I thought that was love—giving until it hurt, loving until it broke me.

I became the girl who stayed silent just to keep the peace. The woman who said “It’s fine,” even when her heart was splitting open in places no one could see. I swallowed my needs so many times, I forgot what hunger felt like. I called it strength. I called it grace.

But it was grief.

Grief for the parts of me I kept trading away in the hope of being chosen. For the laughter I held back. For the truths I buried just to be a little more lovable in someone else’s story.

And still—there was this voice.

Not loud. Not angry. Just tired.

She whispered, “Come back to me.”

Not to the past. Not to the pain. But to me. To the version of myself that danced barefoot on hardwood floors, who laughed without lowering her voice, who didn’t apologize for taking up space, who didn’t dim her light just to be less overwhelming.

She missed me. And I missed her too.

So I started walking—not away from love, but toward truth. Toward the raw, trembling truth that I had betrayed myself too many times in the name of keeping others comfortable. I started reclaiming the parts of me I thought I had to silence in order to be loved.

I’m not healing so someone else will love me better. I’m healing because I want to love me better.

I’m healing to recognize myself in the mirror again. To meet my own gaze without flinching. To touch my skin without shame. To feel joy without thinking I need to earn it.

I’m healing to stop rehearsing conversations that never happen. To stop writing stories where I’m always the one saying sorry. To stop folding myself in half just to fit inside someone else’s comfort zone.

I’m healing to remember that I am not too much. I never was. I was just too real for people who weren’t ready.

I’m not fixing myself to become easier to hold—I’m unfolding myself so I can hold me.

And maybe that means I won’t fit into the life you imagined for me. Maybe this version of me doesn’t bend where she used to. Maybe she says no more often. Maybe she walks away sooner. Maybe she doesn’t stay just because she used to.

That’s okay.

I didn’t come this far to be softer for you. I came this far to become whole.

This isn’t a glow-up. It’s a resurrection. It’s a remembering. It’s me, crawling back into my own bones and whispering, “You never needed to change to be worthy. You only needed to return.”

So if you see me now—smiling, softer, slower—know that it’s not because I’m healed.

It’s because I’m healing. Boldly. Messily. Honestly. Tenderly.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not doing it for anyone else.

I’m doing it for the girl who waited.

For the woman who wept.

For the soul that survived.

I’m not healing to be better for you.

I’m healing

because I finally chose

me.