My entire life, I’ve tried to fit into spaces that quietly rejected me and my thoughts.
Friend groups that made me feel different because I had a father instead of a mother — which eventually taught me to stop speaking about my home life altogether.
Adults whose judgment and rigid beliefs made me feel small and insecure — to the point where, even when I grew older and their advice could have helped me, I struggled to trust what they said.
Colleagues who belittled my ideas or repackaged them as their own — which slowly made me stop caring about being recognized and start focusing on building myself instead.
And people I would have done anything for, who still pushed me away or excluded me — forcing me to confront the painful truth that I spent so much time chasing acceptance from people who never truly saw me, while distancing myself from the people who actually tried to understand me.
At every stage of my life, I responded the same way:
I minimized myself.
I became quieter.
Smaller.
Less opinionated.
Less expressive.
More digestible.
I convinced myself that if I could just make myself easier to hold, easier to accept, easier to ignore — maybe I’d finally belong in those rooms.
But that never really worked.
Because some spaces require your silence in exchange for inclusion.
And no matter how much I reduced myself, it was never enough.
What hurts the most is realizing how long I abandoned myself just to remain connected to people who were already emotionally disconnected from me.
The entire time, I thought survival meant forcing myself into spaces that never had room for me.
When really, all I had to do was create my own.
A space where my thoughts aren’t interruptions.
A space where my emotions aren’t “too much.”
A space where I don’t have to earn softness, understanding, or belonging.
For so long, I thought acceptance was something other people had to grant me.
Now I’m realizing it’s something I can give myself first.
