This Poem is an Apology to Myself

I don’t know exactly when I stopped being kind to myself. Maybe it was the first time I looked in the mirror and believed someone else’s definition of beauty instead of my own. Or maybe it was the quiet moment I didn’t speak up in my defense—thinking silence was strength, or that pleasing others was more important than preserving myself.

I remember all the versions of me I’ve been. The one who smiled even when her voice was breaking. The one who laughed too loud so no one would ask why her eyes were always tired. The one who apologized for things she didn’t do, just to avoid conflict. And the one who looked around a room and always felt like too much or not enough.

To each of those versions—I owe an apology.

So I wrote this poem for me. Not for the world. Not to be liked, or quoted, or praised. But to be heard—by the girl inside me who needed someone to say, “I see you. I’m sorry. And I’m still here.”

Because for too long, I mistook endurance for healing. I wore my scars like medals, thinking pain made me more real. I accepted love that came with conditions. I made room for people who never offered me the same. I carried silence like a shield, when all I wanted was to be understood.

But the truth is: I abandoned myself long before anyone else did. I dismissed my instincts. I called my dreams “unrealistic.” I settled, shrank, and softened myself so others wouldn’t feel threatened by my light. I let guilt guide me, let fear define me, and let shame narrate my story.

And I forgive me for that.

I forgive myself for believing that strength meant never needing help. For thinking that crying made me weak, or asking made me selfish. I forgive the years I spent trying to become someone I thought the world would love more. I forgive the way I treated my body—feeding it anxiety, withholding kindness, expecting perfection.

I forgive myself for the mornings I couldn’t get out of bed. For the times I said “I’m fine” when I wasn’t. For how hard I’ve been on myself for being human.

You deserve softness too, I write to the mirror.

Not the kind that erases your edges, but the kind that says: you don’t have to fight your way through everything. You don’t need to bleed just to prove you’re alive.

This poem is not a confession. It’s a reclamation. A soft revolution.

I’m not asking to forget the pain. The heartbreaks taught me who I am. The betrayals showed me the kind of love I never want to accept again. The failures? They carved out space inside me for something more real. I don’t need to erase my past. I just refuse to let it define my future.

So here’s to the girl who thought her worth depended on how much she could give. The one who spent years over-explaining herself to people who were never really listening. The one who kept bending just to stay in someone else’s frame. I’m sorry for making you feel small to keep others comfortable.

You were never too much.

You were never not enough.

You were just growing in a world that kept trying to prune you into something easier to understand.

From now on, I will write new definitions for myself. Not the ones etched in someone else’s disappointment or rooted in comparison. But the ones that feel like home in my own skin. I will name my joy sacred, not selfish. I will treat my peace like gold, not something to trade for temporary validation.

I will sit with my younger self more often. I will read her stories that remind her how magical she is. I will hold space for her anger, her wonder, her wild. I will stop shushing her just because the world prefers its women quieter. And I will stop trying to edit her into something easier to love.

I will become the apology I never received—from others, yes—but especially from myself.

And this poem? It’s just the beginning.

It’s the ink I dip into when I want to remember that healing is not about erasing the past. It’s about honoring every part of the journey. Even the messy drafts. Even the broken stanzas. Even the pages I once wanted to burn.

This poem is an apology. But it’s also a love letter. A vow.

To be softer with my inner voice. To celebrate the wins I used to downplay. To pause. To breathe. To trust my no as much as my yes. To no longer treat myself as a problem that needs fixing.

Because I was never broken. Just buried.

And now I’m rising—one honest word at a time.