03/23/2025
The Death of Me
The first time I died, it wasn’t a sudden moment. It was a slow unravelling, stretching over years. I convinced myself I was happy. I played the part perfectly to the outside world—showing everyone just how blessed I was. I wasn’t just fooling them, though. I was lying to myself, too. I told myself this was the life I wanted and the person I needed. I thought if I loved him enough, he’d see it, and we would be great together. But the more love I gave, the more he made me feel unworthy of his.
This pattern went on for years. Yet, despite all the signs, I still told myself this was the life I was meant for. But little by little, I began to fade. I was no longer the fun-loving, free spirit I once was. I started believing that I didn’t deserve good things. The things I used to be passionate about became quiet in my mind. I stopped talking about the things that mattered to me. I wasn’t living anymore—I was just existing.
Then, one day, the world I had worked so hard to hold together shattered. Publicly, no less. Everything I had feared—the cruel words, the gaslighting, the manipulation—became an endless loop in my mind. His voice became my voice. The awful things he said about me? I believed them. I started to think I was pathetic, disgusting, unworthy of love. I believed no decent person could ever want to be with someone like me.
I withdrew from the world. I isolated myself, convinced that everyone else saw me the same way he did. The laughter I forced was hollow, an act I put on so no one would see how broken and undesirable I really felt. I can see it now—I was mourning the death of the woman I used to be. The woman who once sparkled with joy and had so many friends. That version of me was gone, buried under the weight of years spent trying to be good enough for someone who never valued me.
So, I tried to become someone else. I worked hard to be the person others would like. Maybe, I thought, if I achieved enough if I did great things, someone—anyone—would find me worthy. But no matter how hard I tried, I never found that connection. I was still overlooked, still talked over, still dismissed.
Eventually, I started working in a service job, forcing myself to be outgoing as part of my role. But inside, I was quietly observing everyone around me—how they treated others, how they used people and gossiped behind their backs. I felt disillusioned, losing faith in humanity. This wasn’t the world I wanted to be part of.
Oddly enough, it was in solitude that I found a new kind of peace. I spent more time in nature, walking with my dogs, just listening to the sounds around me. The birds, the wind, the rhythm of my own breath. My dogs were my lifeline—they showed me what unconditional love really felt like. In their presence, I started to be honest with myself again. How could I not be? They saw me at my worst and loved me anyway.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but one day I realized something had shifted within me. I no longer craved the approval of people who drained me. I began to walk away from negativity, to distance myself from anything or anyone that didn’t serve my healing. Alone, I found peace. I no longer asked why I was alone; instead, I started to cherish it. I found joy in my own company, in being with myself. Where I once was my harshest critic, I became my own biggest supporter.
And that was the day the younger version of me died. The woman I used to be—so trusting, so open, so eager to love—she’s gone. I miss her sometimes, but in her place stands a warrior. A woman who knows her worth, who is still capable of love but far more discerning about where she places it. I no longer ignore people’s true colours or make excuses for their behaviour. My eyes are open now, and no one can ever make me feel less than again.
I have been reborn.
