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The one main question I kept asking myself was “why?”. The fact that I couldn’t answer it left me confused, shaken, and unsure. I wasn’t asking out of self-pity or self-devastation. I wanted to understand. No—I needed to understand.

So what did I do? I tore myself apart. Not in a way that would make me collapse, but in a way that forced me to look and understand why. If there were faults within myself that needed to be addressed. If I really was as horrid as I felt. If I was too much, not enough, or just… unlovable. And not only in a romantic sense, but in the sense of family, friends, and even myself.
Laying yourself bare for others to see is hard. Laying yourself bare for yourself is something else entirely. Facing your wrongs, acknowledging them, understanding why they happened, and holding yourself accountable feels like climbing the tallest mountain filled with jagged edges and drops. But I didn’t do that work to stay comfortable or keep myself in illusion. I did it to actually grow.

And I have.

I’ve learned that I can hold two truths at once, even when they sit on opposite ends. Not everything is black and white. I’ve always known that, but putting it into practice showed me the many shades in between—not just the ones I was used to seeing.

I’ve learned that what I was giving were often the very things I wanted in return. But it isn’t that simple. There are other people’s capacities, their willingness to grow, and the space they’re comfortable staying in. We all hold different capacities. That doesn’t make anyone better or less—just different. But within that difference, it can feel very lonely. Especially when, in my experience, those who can meet me there are rare.

Authenticity isn’t just important to me—it’s rooted in who I am. I refuse to shrink, hide, or make myself smaller to make others comfortable. That isn’t peace. Real peace comes from being honest, accountable, and grounded in who I am—not performing or avoiding.

Being fully seen matters to me. Not just the good, but the hard parts too—my disabilities, my struggles, my courage, and everything that makes up who I am beneath the surface. Because all of that is me. And I can say this with confidence now: just because someone says they can see you fully doesn’t mean they can, have, or ever will.

I am not the same person I was last week, last month, or even months ago. I’ve grown, and I will continue to. But growth is not weakness. My kindness is not naivety. My silence is not me being closed off. And my doors are not locked and barricaded.

I have been building my inner world to accept the past, feel steady in the present, and remain open to the future. I don’t know what the future holds—what may return, what won’t, or what has fully drifted away.

But I do know this: I trust myself more. I feel more secure in my decisions and in my life. I am deserving of things I once believed I wasn’t. I can hold tenderness for the past and all the truths that come with it. I can close doors and still leave them unlocked.

Because we’re human. And growth isn’t linear.

Am I lonely? Yes.

But even in that loneliness, I am still whole.

I am still… me.

I hope there is peace and healing on whichever path comes into view.