Reclaiming My Mind: The Quiet Fight to Be Me Again

I didn’t notice when I started disappearing. I just woke up one day and couldn’t find myself anymore.

There was a time I used to laugh without forcing it.

To show up fully loud, bright, unapologetic.

I used to be soft, but not broken.

Giving, but not emptied.

That version of me? She was brilliant. Beautiful. Always smiling. Alive.

But then life hit not all at once, but in slow, silent ways.

Not just pain, but a daily erosion of identity.

I made a decision one I can’t yet speak of and from that moment, I felt like I failed.

Like I had let down everyone who ever believed in me.

The shame wasn’t loud, but it was heavy.

Even when I told myself I’d moved on… I hadn’t.

I didn’t move on. I morphed into someone I didn’t recognize.

I was drained. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

But I kept showing up.

Because that’s what we do, right?

We wear our pain like foundation.

We smile like we’re not crumbling.

We keep moving, even when we’re not okay.

I lived in chaos not just around me, but inside me.

No peace. No ease. Just the pressure to keep holding it all together.

Somewhere in that chaos, I lost the real me.

I started putting up with things I never should’ve tolerated.

Staying where I didn’t belong.

Accepting treatment I didn’t deserve.

And yet…

I became more understanding. More empathetic.

Gentler with others because I knew what silent suffering felt like.

I told myself: “Don’t lash out. People are carrying things too.”

But people?

They took advantage of that empathy.

They mistook my softness for weakness.

And I stayed quiet again.

Until silence became distance.

Warmth, turned cold.

Hope, turned into survival.

I became stuck in a version of me that knew how to endure, but not how to live.

And no one noticed I was slowly dying inside.

Not because they didn’t care.

But because I stopped showing signs of life.

But I’m not staying there.

I’m reclaiming myself

Not the version the world molded,

But the girl who existed before the pain.

Before the performance.

Before the pressure to be everything for everyone.

I’m choosing rest.

Choosing truth.

Choosing me.

No more apologizing for needing help.

No more shrinking to be digestible.

No more stretching myself until there’s nothing left.

I matter too.

I’m allowed to fall apart.

I deserve softness not just from others, but from myself.

And if that makes me harder to understand?

So be it.

Because the version of me I’m fighting to become again?

She’s worth everything I lost along the way.

And this time…

I’m not letting her go.