Tonight, I’ve been thinking. It’s one of those emotional nights where everything bubbles up at once. Sometimes, it’s just hard to believe in yourself. Hard to see yourself somewhere big when all you’ve known is survival. For most of my life, I’ve been in that mode: survive, survive, survive. And now that I’m trying to dream bigger, to build something more, I’m realizing how much grief comes with it.

My wounds go deep. I wish I was joking, but I’m not. This is my reality. And while I know I’m healing, I also know I’ll need a partner one day who doesn’t just tolerate my scars but holds them gently. Someone who wraps me in emotional safety and reminds me that I don’t have to perform to be loved. That I don’t have to be in survival mode anymore. Someone who reminds me that softness is safe. That I am safe.

I used to wrestle with not saying anything. I felt like silence made me look bitter. Like if I was really healed, I would sit down and “have the talk.” But sometimes silence is sacred. Sometimes no contact is the most honest form of love, for yourself. Sometimes not saying anything is your closure. I owe myself more than I owe them. I owe myself peace, not people-pleasing. I owe myself clarity, not confusion. I owe myself safety, not more trauma wrapped in guilt. I owe myself growth, not recycling pain with people who refuse to change.