Giveing Me Back to Me

Giving Me Back to Me

I don’t know the exact moment I lost myself. There wasn’t some grand betrayal, no loud bang or crashing fall. It happened quietly. Softly. Like sand slipping through fingers—you don’t realize it’s gone until your hands are empty.

It started with little things. Biting my tongue when I wanted to speak. Smiling when I wanted to cry. Saying “I’m fine” while carrying a world of hurt on my shoulders. I made excuses for others. I made none for myself.

At some point, I stopped checking in with how I really felt. I stopped asking what I needed. I became a stranger to my own soul. I was living… but I wasn’t alive.

And one day, I looked in the mirror and thought, *Where did I go?*

The Disappearance

It’s strange, isn’t it? How you can be surrounded by people, by noise, by “life,” and still feel utterly alone. I kept showing up—at work, at family gatherings, in conversations—but it was like watching someone else live my life from the sidelines.

I had become the master of performance. I played the role: the dependable one, the strong one, the funny one, the one who had it together. No one could see the ache under the surface, the exhaustion in my bones, the way my laughter sometimes ended in silence behind closed doors.

I didn’t know how to say, *“I’m not okay.”* I was afraid that if I admitted how lost I felt, the whole illusion would shatter. That everyone would leave. That even I wouldn’t know what to do with the truth.

So I buried it. All of it. Under busyness, under people-pleasing, under distraction. I poured pieces of myself into people who never offered their hands to catch me. I gave and gave until I was threadbare.

And when there was nothing left of me, I didn’t even notice. Because I had trained myself to live that way.

The Breaking Point

The human heart has a way of keeping count, even when the mind tries to forget.

There was a night, alone in my room, when something inside me cracked. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, scrolling through a highlight reel of other people’s joy. The noise was unbearable. Not the sound, but the *quiet* inside me.

I looked around at the life I had built and thought: *Why does none of this feel like mine?*

And then, softer than a whisper, the truth came: *I miss me.*

I miss the way I used to laugh with my whole body. I miss the girl who dreamed out loud and believed she deserved more. I miss the way I used to write in journals and stay up late wondering about the stars. I missed my own heart.

I sat there for what felt like hours, grieving a version of me I had abandoned.

But that grief—that sacred, aching grief—was the first honest feeling I’d let myself have in a long, long time.

The Crawl Back

Healing didn’t start with a grand declaration. It wasn’t some loud vow that “I’m taking my life back.”

It started with a whisper: *I want to come home to myself.*

And so I crawled.

I stopped pretending I was okay. I let myself cry—real, ugly, cleansing tears. I deleted numbers that felt like open wounds. I left conversations that made me feel small. I started saying “no” without explaining myself.

I went on walks with no destination. I turned off my phone. I looked up at the sky instead of down at a screen.

I sat with the silence that used to terrify me. I stopped trying to outrun it and started asking it what it was trying to teach me.

I forgave myself for all the times I put everyone else first. For all the moments I said yes when my soul screamed no. For the years I wore someone else’s version of me like a costume.

Each day, I chose one small act of self-love. Not because I felt like I deserved it at first—but because I needed to learn how.

And piece by piece, something sacred began to return.

The Reclaiming

Giving me back to me didn’t come in some big, shining moment. It came in hundreds of small ones.

It came in the quiet relief of setting boundaries that used to terrify me.

It came in the taste of food I actually liked—not what others liked. The books I read. The music that made me cry. The art I created with no one watching.

It came in the messy, beautiful process of rediscovering who I am when I’m not performing.

I began to realize: I was never truly lost. Just buried. Beneath guilt, shame, fear, and the need to be accepted.

And every time I said, “This is me,” and didn’t flinch—every time I honored my own voice—I dug a little deeper. Brushed off another layer of dust. Found something tender and true.

Who I Am Now

I am not the same person I was before the world hardened me.

But maybe that’s the gift.

Because now, I am softer *and* stronger.

I don’t need to be liked by everyone—I just need to be loved by *me.*

I don’t need to perform to feel worthy—I already am.

I’ve learned how to sit with discomfort without abandoning myself.

I’ve learned how to be alone and still feel whole.

I’ve learned that giving me back to me wasn’t about becoming someone new—but *returning* to the person I always was beneath the noise.

To You, If You're Reading This

Maybe you’re in your own season of forgetting. Maybe you’ve been wearing a version of yourself that doesn’t fit anymore. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you feel like no one sees the real you.

Let this be your sign: the journey home is waiting for you.

You don’t have to figure it all out today. Just begin.

Ask yourself what you need. What you miss. What you love. What you’re tired of holding.

And then, slowly—bravely—start giving yourself back.

It doesn’t matter how far you’ve drifted. You’re not too late. You’re not too lost.

There’s a whole world inside you, still burning, still hoping you’ll return.

So come home.

Come home to your voice. Your joy. Your peace. Your dreams. Your softness. Your strength.

Come home to the person you were before the world told you who to be.

Giving Me Back to Me

It’s not a destination. It’s a becoming.

And every day, I get to meet myself again—with more grace, more truth, more love.

That, to me, is the greatest kind of freedom.

I am no longer waiting for someone else to save me.

I saved myself.

And in the process, I found the most beautiful thing I ever lost—

Me.