There was a time I didn’t choose me.
I bent backwards, twisted into versions of myself
that only existed to keep the peace.
To be loved.
To be “enough” for someone who didn’t even see me.
I played small.
Apologized when I wasn’t wrong.
Stayed quiet just to be liked.
Let people walk through my boundaries
like they were just decorative fences
that looked good but weren’t meant to hold.
But somewhere between the tears I cried in silence
and the mirror I avoided for months,
something cracked.
And thank God it did.
Because that crack
—that fracture in the performance of my life—
let light in.
That’s when I realized:
I’m not here to be digestible.
I’m not here to make others comfortable
while I drown quietly in my own skin.
So now, I choose me.
Not once. Not just on a Sunday morning after a breakup.
Not just when the moon is full and my journal is nearby.
But again. And again. And again.
Every damn day.
I choose me when I say no without guilt.
When I walk away from half-assed love.
When I cancel plans because I need rest, not excuses.
When I stop chasing closure and give it to myself instead.
Choosing me isn’t always pretty.
It’s lonely sometimes.
It’s waking up and wondering if you’re asking for too much.
(It’s not too much. You’re just asking the wrong person.)
It’s eating alone. Healing alone.
Loving yourself in a way that scares you.
But it’s also freedom.
It’s waking up without dread in your chest.
It’s looking in the mirror and not flinching.
It’s becoming the person you always needed.
So if no one’s ever told you before:
You’re allowed to choose yourself.
Without explanation.
Without apology.
Even if it means disappointing everyone else.
I choose me.
Over and over again.
And finally, that’s enough.
