And before anyone starts calling me a pick-me, let me just say: I still hate men. Genuinely. Deeply. In fact, I think hating men and loving individual men can coexist quite comfortably.

Because the thing is, I know my male friends.

I know them beyond the jokes, the flirting, the stupid decisions, the occasional emotional constipation. I know the people underneath all of that.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about how rarely we talk about them as people.

Not men. People.

I see my male friends struggle sometimes. I see the things they don’t say. I see the moments where something is clearly bothering them, but they would rather swallow it than admit that they’re hurting. I see how uncomfortable some of them are with vulnerability, how quickly they turn a serious conversation into a joke, how often “I’m fine” really means I don’t know how to talk about this.

And I can’t even completely blame them. They’ve been taught this. They’ve been taught that crying makes them weak. That being sensitive makes them feminine. That admitting they’re scared makes them less of a man. That they should be providers, protectors, problem-solvers, but never people who need protecting themselves. And then we wonder why so many men don’t know how to communicate their emotions.

This isn’t me defending men.

God forbid.

Men hurt women. Men hurt each other. Men make terrible decisions. Men can be cruel, selfish, manipulative, and emotionally unavailable. And understanding where some of that behaviour comes from doesn’t magically make the behaviour okay. But I’ve started realizing that understanding someone and excusing them are two completely different things. I can condemn what someone does and still wonder what happened to them. I can acknowledge that men have privileges in society and still acknowledge that masculinity can hurt them too. I can be angry at men as a group and still love the individual men who have shown me kindness, vulnerability, loyalty, and genuine friendship.

Because my male friends are not just men.

They’re my friends.

They’re people who have bad days. People who get scared. People who get their feelings hurt and pretend they don’t care. People who sometimes need someone to ask, “Are you actually okay?” and stay long enough for them to answer honestly. Maybe that’s what friendship has taught me. That people are always more complicated than the categories we put them in.

And maybe, unfortunately, men are people too.

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But what happens when all the decisions one makes are bad? What happens when the hurt isn’t accidental anymore? When the lying is intentional. When the betrayal is deliberate. When someone knows exactly what they’re doing will hurt another person and does it anyway.

At what point do we stop calling it a bad decision and start calling it a bad person? Maybe that’s too simple. Maybe people are more complicated than that. But sometimes I don’t want complicated. I’m tired of trying to see the multiple colors life has in order to understand why people do what they do. Sometimes I just want to ask: What about the people they hurt? Because the person who caused the damage gets to keep living. They wake up. They laugh. They go out. They make new friends. They fall in love. They build careers. They have normal days. And the person they hurt is left carrying what they did. That’s the part I can’t understand. How can one person cause so much pain and simply continue living as if nothing happened?

How can the person who broke someone else get to move on while the person who was broken has to figure out how to put themselves back together? I resent that. I resent the world for making suffering feel so random. I resent how kindness isn’t always rewarded. How being a good person doesn’t protect you from being hurt. How doing everything right doesn’t guarantee that something won’t go terribly wrong. I resent watching people with good hearts struggle to survive while people with terrible intentions seem to have everything handed to them.

I realize the world doesn’t work the way I thought it did. There isn’t always justice. There isn’t always accountability. Sometimes people hurt you and never apologize. Sometimes they never understand what they did. Sometimes they don’t even think they did anything wrong. And you have to live with that. YOU HAVE TO FUCKING LIVE WITH THAT.

You have to somehow accept that the world can be deeply unfair and still wake up the next morning and participate in it. I don’t know how to make peace with that and I don’t think I ever will.

This is cruel and I fucking HATE that.

It’s just that sometimes, sadness comes in waves. So does anger. Not the kind that’s loud, but the kind that quietly sits beside you and suddenly reminds you of everything you thought you had already made peace with. Sometimes I remember. I remember the things people did to me. The things they said without thinking about how they would affect me. The ways I was hurt by people who probably went to sleep that night without ever wondering if I was okay.

I remember being left out. I remember what it felt like to constantly wonder if I was too much, or not enough, or simply not wanted. I remember feeling like a failure. Like there was always something everyone else had figured out that I somehow hadn’t. I remember being angry about it. I remember being sad about it. I remember being the version of myself who carried all of that around and still tried to smile.

And maybe that’s why I hate when people do things without considering how they will affect other people. Because I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone’s thoughtlessness. I know what it feels like when someone makes a decision that is perfectly convenient for them and leaves you to deal with the emotional wreckage. And yes, maybe sometimes people have to be selfish. I’m learning that now. Maybe selfishness isn’t always cruelty. Maybe sometimes selfishness is choosing yourself before you disappear trying to make everyone else comfortable.

So I’m trying. I’m trying to do the things I love without asking whether everyone else will approve. I’m trying to let myself love who I love without being terrified of what that love might cost me. I’m trying to stop treating friendships like ticking time bombs, waiting for the moment someone decides they don’t want me anymore. I’m trying to let people get close.But sometimes, I don’t know how.

Sometimes affection gets stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. Sometimes I want to say I love you and instead I say nothing, I brush it off and make jokes. Sometimes I care so deeply that I become afraid of showing it, because what if caring gives someone the power to hurt me? What if loving someone means eventually losing them? What if letting someone matter means giving them the ability to make me feel like that little girl again—the one who was always wondering why she wasn’t enough?

Maybe that’s what all these attachment issues are. Maybe they’re just old wounds trying to protect me from new ones. And I know that’s not always fair. I know people who love me shouldn’t have to pay for the things other people did. I know I can’t keep punishing the present for the sins of the past. But healing is strange. Because sometimes you think you’ve moved on, and then a memory finds you on an ordinary afternoon and suddenly you’re angry all over again. Not because you want to live there. Just because some parts of you are still learning that you don’t.

So yes. I’m fine. I swear I am. I’m just learning how to be selfish without becoming cruel. How to love without bracing for impact. How to let people care about me without waiting for the catch. How to be affectionate without feeling naked. How to stop confusing distance with safety. How to choose myself without abandoning everyone else. And maybe being fine doesn’t mean that I never feel sad again. Maybe it just means that when the sadness comes, I don’t become it. I let the wave pass. And then I keep going.

For me, it was grades.

It was always grades. There was something about being academically good that seemed to make a person easier to understand. A good grade was proof. Proof that you were intelligent. Proof that you were disciplined. Proof that you were going somewhere. Proof that you were worth loving. And I wanted that proof so badly.

The problem is, I was never really bad at school. I just wasn’t ever great. I was good enough to pass. Good enough to get by. Good enough that nobody could really say I was failing, but never good enough to feel like I was winning. And somehow, being in that strange space made me feel like I had nothing to be proud of. Because when you are surrounded by people who seem naturally brilliant, when someone else’s excellence is constantly being held up as something to aspire to, you start measuring yourself against a scale that was never made for you.

A B becomes disappointing because someone else got an A. An A becomes insignificant because someone else got a higher score. And eventually, you stop asking, Am I doing well? You start asking, Am I good enough? And those are two very different questions.

I think I became addicted to academic validation without ever really receiving enough of it. Which is such a cruel combination. Because I kept chasing something that I had already decided would determine my worth, but I never quite caught it. So every achievement felt temporary. Every good grade felt like an accident. Every time I did well, I thought, maybe this is the time I’ll finally feel smart. And then the next result would come. And suddenly I was back at the beginning. Still comparing. Still calculating. Still wondering why I couldn’t just be the person who was effortlessly brilliant.

I don’t think people understand what it does to you when you spend years believing that intelligence is one of the main things that makes you valuable, while constantly feeling like you are only almost intelligent enough. You begin to confuse performance with identity. You don’t think, I didn’t do well on this test. You think, maybe I’m not as smart as I thought I was. You don’t think, I need to study differently. You think, maybe there is something wrong with me and eventually, school stops being a place where you learn. It becomes a place where you measure yourself.

Maybe that’s why validation means so much to me. Because somewhere along the way, I started believing that if I could just become academically impressive enough, I could finally look at myself and feel like I deserved to be proud. But what happens when you never become that person? What happens when you spend your whole life waiting for the grades that are supposed to tell you that you’re worth something, and they never quite say it loudly enough?

Maybe my worth was never supposed to be proven by a number at the top of a page. Maybe being average at something doesn’t make me an average person. Maybe struggling doesn’t make me stupid. Maybe not being the smartest person in the room doesn’t mean I don’t belong in the room. And maybe I don’t need to become exceptional at everything just to justify my existence.

I wish I had known that earlier.

Because I have spent so much time trying to become someone I could finally be proud of, that I forgot there was a person underneath all that trying. A person who was already there. A person who was never a grade. Never a ranking. Never a score. Just a person who wanted, more than anything, to finally feel like they were enough.

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Not any of them really.

I just miss the parts of love that didn’t require an explanation. I miss being known. There’s something exhausting about starting over with someone new. Having to tell the same stories. The childhood memories. The family dynamics. Why your laugh gets louder when you’re nervous. Why you don’t answer calls when you’re overwhelmed. Why a certain song makes you quiet.

I don’t think people talk enough about how tiring introductions can become. Not the “Hi, my name is…” The other kind.

The slow unpacking of a life you’ve already explained before. “This is my best friend”, “My brother is the quiet one”, “My mum says this every time I come home”, “My dad and I usually don’t see eye to eye.” And then explaining them all over again. Giving context. Translating years into conversations that last minutes.

An ex already knew. They knew who was who without asking. They understood why your face changed when a certain name appeared on your phone. They knew which stories had happy endings and which ones still hurt. There was comfort in that. Not because they were perfect. But because they already spoke your language. I think that’s what I miss most. Not necessarily them. Just the ease.

The feeling of walking into a room where you didn’t have to introduce yourself. Love becomes familiar in quiet ways. It’s knowing how someone likes their coffee. Knowing which side they like to walk on. Knowing that “I’m fine” means “Please stay.” Knowing the silence isn’t anger. It’s just silence.

You spend months—sometimes years—building that kind of understanding. Then one day it’s gone. And you’re back to meeting new people. Back to favorite colors. Back to pretending your life can be summarized.

I don’t think I miss my exes because I believe they were meant to stay. I miss them because they held versions of me that no one else has met. They knew chapters I no longer tell. They witnessed dreams I’ve outgrown. They remember people I’ve lost. There is something strangely lonely about realizing the only people who remember certain versions of you are people you no longer speak to.

Maybe that’s why moving on feels heavier than people admit. You’re not just leaving a person. You’re leaving the only witness to a season of your life. And now, if someone wants to know you, you have to become your own storyteller again. You have to explain the jokes. Retell the heartbreaks. Reintroduce your world.

Maybe that’s why people go back sometimes. Not because the love was extraordinary. But because familiarity is. Because being known is addictive. Because there is a certain kind of rest in not having to explain yourself. At least I know that’s why I go back.

So I don’t know if I miss my exes. I just think I miss arriving somewhere and already belonging and I miss the version of love that felt like coming home before I even knocked.

It wasn’t a decision. One day I just couldn’t sit through another grand confession, another forehead kiss, another “I’ll choose you every time”. EW LIES.

It felt like watching a language I no longer spoke. Trying to understand something that no longer made sense too me.

And maybe that’s when I forgot what love was supposed to feel like.

Not all at once obviously.

Just enough that I can’t tell the difference anymore between being loved and being tolerated anymore. Between someone wanting me and someone simply not leaving yet. I used to know. I wanted someone to love me so bad.

I used to believe love looked like laughter, in the kitchen, shared headphones, long drives, stupid inside jokes, and hands that reached for yours without thinking just happening. Now love feels like waiting for a reply. Like apologizing for taking up space. Like convincing yourself that crumbs are a feast.

I don’t know when I became this person. The one who hears “I miss you” and wonders who they meant to send it to. The one who flinches at kindness because kindness has always come with an expiration date.

People say hurt people hurt people. But no one tells you that hurt people also forget.

Forget how safety feels, forget what tenderness sounds like, forget that love isn’t supposed to make you question your worth every night before you sleep.

Maybe that’s why I stopped watching romance. Because somewhere between being disappointed and becoming numb, I stopped recognizing it.

Now every happy ending looks like science fiction. Every soulmate feels like propaganda. Every promise sounds like something people say right before they leave.

Sometimes I wonder if I lost my ability to love, or if I buried it so deep that even I can’t find it anymore. Maybe my heart didn’t break. Maybe it adapted. Turned every soft place into concrete. Locked every door and threw away the blueprint.

I wish I could tell you I miss love.

But the truth is—

I don’t even remember what it’s supposed to feel like and I think that’s the saddest part. Not that no one stayed. Not that I got hurt. But that somewhere along the way, I stopped missing what I couldn’t remember. I became so numb that I mistook the absence of love for peace.

And now, when the credits roll on someone else’s happy ending, I don’t cry. I don’t smile. I just stare at a screen full of strangers wondering if I ever knew love at all, or if I only knew what it felt like to spend my whole life searching for it.

The days that broke me.

I remember thinking

I would never be the same.

I remember the weight of it,

how it sat in my chest

like a stone.

For weeks,months, years

everything tasted like that moment.

Every quiet room

echoed with it.

But time is strange.

It does not argue.

It does not heal you loudly.

It just keeps moving.

And one day

I tried to remember the exact sound

of what was said—

and I couldn’t.

The words were gone first.

Then the tone.

Then the look on the face

across from mine.

Now when I reach for it,

I find a blur.

I know something happened.

I know it hurt.

But the edges are soft.

The colors have run.

It feels far away,

like a dream I once had

that mattered very much

but will not come back.

Maybe this is how we survive.

Maybe the brain,

kind and quiet,

decides for us

what we can no longer

carry.

who still wakes up every morning,

still breathes, still laughs somewhere

I am no longer invited to.

There was no ending scene,

no final sentence spoken aloud.

Just a slow disappearance—

you fading while standing right in front of me.

I mourn the version of you

who knew my silence,

the you who felt like home,

the future we sketched in careless conversations.

That person is gone,

even if your body isn’t.

This grief is strange—

it has no grave to kneel beside,

no date to circle on a calendar.

Only memories that ambush me

in songs, in streets, in moments

that still say your name.

Hope is the cruelest part.

It lingers like a light left on

for someone who isn’t coming back.

I grieve with one hand holding on

and the other learning how to let go.

So I learn to love you quietly now,

from a distance that aches.

I fold you into my past

and carry the weight without asking why.

You are alive—

and I am still learning

how to survive

the loss of you.

It felt like a term designed for attention seekers

I remember when I’d struggled too get up in the morning

I would look into the world and see obstacles instead of possibilities

I would look at myself and hate everything about myself

I would have some thoughts and hate how my brain was designed

I would slit my wrist and have no sense of remorse

I would question my existence

Why I’m here and all of that

I hated being alone cause I thought it meant I was lonely

I tried so hard too fit in that I never really knew who I was

I’d put on the perfect personality to fit in to where I was

But I still never wanted to call it depression cause I didn’t want to be a stereotypical sad girl so I’d pretend

I’d go through the day struggling, laughing, playing and well adapting.

I became so good at adapting

I kept on changing that I forgot how to be me

I hated myself and tried so hard to change but, what now?

How do I explain that I think my depression defined me

The fact that I was a little sad made me whole

How do I explain that me getting rid of my depression caused me my ability to feel.

My ability to relate with others emotionally

My empathy

All gone cause I didn’t want to feel a little sad.

It's funny how skinny shaming isn't even talked about.

How I don't even know if "Skinny shaming " is a real word cause people don't even talk about it.

How we constantly talk about not shaming those "overweight " when skinny people are constantly facing the same thing

I can't count the number of times I've been called "flat"

The number of times they've told me "You don't eat enough","why aren't you trying to add weight? ", "you should eat more", "if only your bum was bigger"

The constant struggle of hating what you wear because your jeans don't sit the way they're supposed too.

The number of times I couldn't wear tops because my arms were showing or sleeveless dresses because I hate how skinny my arms look

Hating how your colar bone always pops out in what you wear.

How people constantly say they want to be skinny until people ask them "are you sick?", "why do you look like that,are you okay?", "don't you want to add weight?".

How you can't even talk about it because you sound ungrateful "what are you saying you're snatched", "I'd kill to have your body"

NO YOU WON'T.

This body destroyed my mental health. Made me hate how I looked long before I was even supposed to care.

Long before looks were supposed to matter.

Made me conscious of the way I dressed, the way I stood, the way I approached people.

Made me feel less than because I wasn't "packaged".

How my self worth reduced because people made me feel "my boobs aren't big enough" or because "my bum was to small".

I just want too feel enough. Be comfortable in my skin, in my own body.

That's art

It's a form of expression

It's a way to show how you're feeling without feeling trapped or limited

For a long time I didn't know how to express myself. I tried to show how I felt to people but I just couldn't. I couldn't talk about my feelings cause I didn't want to feel like a burden.

I kept my emotions buried not because I wanted to but because I didn't know how not to, well that is until I discovered art. When I put my emotions into words it's like a part of the burden has been lifted off me.

Art has found a way to make me want to feel, to want to experience things just so can write about it later. It's given me the assurance that no matter what I think I'm going through and no matter how bad it seems no one can ever take away my art, even when it feels like I no longer have it

I might not be the best writer or I might not even be a good writer at all but my writing does what it's supposed to. My writing passes a message it helps people feel, even when they don't want to at least it makes me feel and isn't that what art is all about?

Feeling?

Have you ever just been floating? No dreams, no ambition, nothing. You're just cruising through life. You shut off your emotions, trying your best not to feel. Not to feel love, not to feel joy, just so you won't feel pain. You stop opening up until you forget how to. You lock yourself out of your mind until you forget who you really are.

You don't know yourself. You question everything you do. You become unsure of yourself.

I've tried to shut off my emotions for so long because I've been told when to feel and when not to

I've been told when too react a certain way and when not to

When to show emotions and when not to

I've learned to put my emotions on hold and focus on others

How to neglect myself until I physically and mentally can't anymore

Putting my feelings last cause they're the least important

Turn off my opinions

Now I'm just floating. I spend my days doing things that I won't even remember the next day. I've stopped caring.

I'm broken.

I have a lot of confident friends, people who are not afraid to put themselves out there. People who like the way they look and don't focus on how they're voice sounds, people who know they're worth and never let anyone treat the less than they are. Being around those people made me a bit jealous knowing I might never reach that level of confidence.

And that's when I realized, I don't hate confident people, I hate the fact that they have something I want so bad. I hate the fact that they overcome fear so easily, I hate that they don't get sweaty in front of a crowd or their breathing gets heavier, I hate how they don't constantly over think the thought of putting themselves out there.

But what I hate the most is how shy I get in front of a crowd or how scared I am to be myself. I hate how I feel I'll fail at everything I try or how I don't feel pretty or confident in my own body. I wish I had the confidence to try.

I WISH I WAS CONFIDENT.

I read meaning into things that shouldn't have been so serious, just because I wanted too write about it.

So now that I can't write who am I?

Now that I can't put into words how I feel what do I do? Who am I? Not being able to write makes me feel like I've lost myself but what if that wasn't me in the first place?What if I wasn't as good as I thought it was and I just thought I was cause I had nothing else I was good at? What if I just wanted writing too be my thing, the one thing that I was good at when I was really mediocre at best?

I loved writing so much that it's all I wanted too do. I found comfort in it. It became my peace. But now it's gone and I don't know if I'll ever get it back.