The Night I Lost Myself—and Found My Soul

There are moments in life when the air around you seems to freeze, when the space between your thoughts becomes suffocating, and when you realize that nothing will ever be the same again. It’s a stillness that doesn’t come with comfort but with a deep, unsettling feeling that everything you once knew about yourself is slipping through your fingers.

I’ll never forget the night my mother looked me straight in the eyes and said, in the coldest tone, “I wish I had aborted you.”

At that moment, time stopped. I didn’t scream, I didn’t shout—I was too stunned to even react. I simply stood there, caught in the gravity of her words, as if the universe itself had collapsed into a single, sharp moment. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. But it was real. It was happening. The very person who had given me life now wanted to erase my existence.

The space between us seemed to stretch on for eternity. My mother’s voice was like an icy wind, biting through the walls I’d built around myself. I wanted to yell, to tell her how much it hurt, how much I didn’t deserve this, but the words couldn’t form. Instead, I did what I’ve always done in the face of conflict—I withdrew.

I went to my room, sat in the corner of my bed, and stared at the wall. The tears didn’t come, at least not immediately. It was as if I had no more room left for them. The numbness crept in. A darkness that I could not explain flooded my mind. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just a teenager struggling for independence, nor was I the strong young woman everyone expected me to be. I was a ghost, hovering between the person I used to be and the one I had yet to become.

The days that followed felt like a blur. I went through the motions of daily life, but nothing felt real. I smiled at friends, pretended to listen when people spoke, but inside, it was as if a part of me had already shut down. I started to lose track of time. I would sit in the same spot for hours, doing nothing but staring into space. My mind kept playing her words over and over again, like a loop I couldn’t break.

When you’re told, in so many words, that you don’t belong, that you’re unwanted, you start to believe it. How could I not? If my own mother—who should have loved me unconditionally—could speak to me with such disdain, then what did that say about me? Who would want me? Was I just a mistake, a burden? The thoughts swirled, tangled in my mind until I felt like I was suffocating.

But there’s a strange thing that happens when you reach the bottom of despair. You don’t always notice it at first, but you begin to feel an odd kind of stillness within the chaos. A quiet voice, faint but persistent, starts to rise. It’s not hope—hope feels too distant—but it’s a sliver of recognition. A recognition that this—this pain, this heaviness—isn’t the end of my story. It’s simply the beginning of a new chapter, one that I hadn’t yet written.

I stopped crying. I stopped hiding. I became... numb. And I became numb because I thought it was safer that way. It wasn’t just my mother’s words anymore—it was my own thoughts, my own judgment. I believed I was nothing. I believed I had no value beyond the space I occupied. People told me I was strong, that I would bounce back, but the truth was I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to bounce back to a world that had already broken me. So, I let myself sink into the silence, into the void, into a world where no one could hurt me. After all, if I didn’t feel, I couldn’t be hurt, right?

But then came that night.

The air in my room felt different that evening—thick, suffocating, like the universe itself had gathered around me, waiting for me to make a choice. It was 2 a.m., and I found myself staring at the ceiling, numb to the world. The darkness felt like a blanket, wrapping me up, making me feel safe, even though I knew it wasn’t. I thought about the pain, about how empty I felt, how tired I was of pretending everything was okay.

And then, without warning, a thought entered my mind. A thought so quiet, yet so powerful, it almost felt like a whisper directly from my soul: “Maybe it would be better if I just disappeared.”

The thought didn’t scare me. In fact, it felt strangely calm. No terror. No panic. Just a quiet acceptance of what could be. Maybe it would all stop hurting if I simply vanished. But just as the thought settled, another one followed—a tiny, almost imperceptible voice within me that said, “What if she’s wrong? What if you’re not a mistake? What if you belong here?”

The conflict within me felt like a battle between two opposing forces. On one side, there was the dark, silent void that wanted to consume me, to swallow me whole and end the pain. But on the other side, there was that faint, stubborn flicker—the flicker of something more. A flicker that dared to believe that I was worth fighting for, that I deserved better than the narrative my mind had written for me.

I didn’t know which voice was stronger. I didn’t know which path I was supposed to take. But that night, something changed. I didn’t immediately pull myself out of the darkness, but I didn’t let it claim me either.

I let myself cry. For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed the tears to come. I cried for the hurt, for the loss, for the weight of a lifetime of rejection. But I also cried for the part of me that still wanted to fight, the part of me that could heal, the part of me that would find my way back.

The days that followed were harder. There were still moments when the darkness tried to pull me back in. But now, I saw it for what it was: a shadow. A shadow that, with time, would fade into nothing. I started to take small steps forward—writing, learning, doing little things for myself that mattered. I started seeking help, reaching out to friends and mentors who reminded me of the strength I had buried deep inside me.

But the most unexpected part of my healing journey came when I learned to forgive—not my mother, not anyone else—but myself.

I forgave myself for believing the lies. I forgave myself for thinking that my worth was determined by someone else’s opinion. I forgave myself for not seeing the light within me earlier. And with that forgiveness came a kind of peace I had never known. It wasn’t complete or perfect, but it was real. It was mine.

And then came the moment I’ll never forget. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring us together at exactly the right time. I had been working, my mind focused on building a future for myself—away from the hurt, away from the pain. I was starting to stand taller, to breathe easier. And then, unexpectedly, he showed up.

He didn’t speak much at first, but when he did, his words were kind. Not kind in a patronizing way—but in a way that acknowledged my worth, my struggles, and my strength. He didn’t make me feel like I had to prove myself. He simply saw me for who I was.

The love I had for him wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a rush of passion or intensity. It was a quiet, steady growth, like the slow unfolding of a flower that had been closed for far too long. His presence didn’t erase the hurt, but it made it more bearable. He didn’t fix me, but he reminded me that I was worthy of being loved. Not because of what I did or didn’t do—but simply because I existed.

And as I began to find my footing again, I realized that I hadn’t just healed from my mother’s words. I had found something much more profound: I had found myself.

But here’s the thing. Healing doesn’t stop. It doesn’t end. I’m still learning, still growing, still picking up the pieces. I still hear the echoes of the past sometimes—but they don’t define me anymore. And as I walk forward, I realize there’s something powerful about my journey. The night I thought I lost myself was the night I began to truly find who I was meant to be.

I stand here, not as someone who is perfect, but as someone who is finally learning to live, to breathe, and to accept my worth. I’m no longer afraid of the darkness, because I’ve learned how to carry my own light.

And just when I think I’ve conquered it all, I realize there’s still so much more waiting for me. The future is full of unknowns, full of lessons yet to be learned. But for the first time, I’m ready. Ready to embrace it all—no matter what comes next.

And maybe that’s the most powerful thing of all. The unknown.