Too emotional. Too attached. Too loving.

For a long time, I convinced myself that the things I wanted from people were unreasonable, so I learned to settle. I swallowed a lot of things I shouldn’t have because I cared enough to excuse them. I would tell myself, “Maybe that’s just how they love.”

Now, I don’t think that’s true anymore.

One thing I’ve realized recently is that when you’re loved properly, you don’t feel like too much. You don’t feel needy for wanting affection, consistency, or effort. You don’t feel like you’re asking for the world.

You just feel safe.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve settled until someone does effortlessly what another person made you beg for.

I remember loving the idea of falling asleep on a call. It brought me comfort. Then I experienced a relationship where every time I fell asleep, the call would be ended. Eventually, I stopped liking it altogether because rejection has a way of making you feel embarrassed about the things you enjoy.

Then one day I found myself with someone who simply stayed. No complaints. No arguments. No making me feel silly for wanting something small. It happened so naturally that it made me realize many of the things I thought were “too much” were actually just being asked from the wrong people.

But this realization wasn’t only about romantic love.

It was about friendship too.

One of the nicest feelings in the world is being chosen.

Not being the one who always reaches out first. Not being the one making all the plans. Not being the person constantly trying to earn a place in someone’s life.

Just being chosen.

My final semester roommate became one of my closest friendships, and as much as there were moments when I thought, “This girl needs to relax,” she reminded me so much of who I used to be before the world got to my heart.

Before disappointment made me cautious.

Before hurt made me expect the worst.

Before loving people loudly started feeling embarrassing.

She loved loudly. She cared loudly. She showed up loudly.

And somewhere along the way, she made me realize that I am actually a good friend.

I have my flaws. I have moments I’m not proud of. I can overthink. I can be difficult. But she never used cruel words to define me. She never made me feel like my mistakes were my entire identity.

Instead, she saw me with kindness.

For once, I wasn’t sitting around wondering what was wrong with me. For once, I wasn’t shrinking myself to be easier to love.

I was simply loved.

I think that’s why I’ll always be grateful for the people in my life now. They have shown me that healthy relationships and healthy friendships exist. They’ve shown me that being chosen feels different from fighting to be kept around.

The truth is, being hurt changes you. It makes you suspicious. It makes you expect people to leave before they’ve even given you a reason to doubt them. Sometimes I still find myself waiting for the moment things go wrong because that’s what I’ve become used to.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning that not everyone continues the cycle of hurt. Some people actually help end it.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all.

Being loved properly doesn’t make you feel like you’re too much.

It makes you realize how little you once accepted.

Everywhere I look, there seems to be a new aesthetic. Clean girl. Soft girl. Corporate girl. That girl. Cottagecore. Vanilla girl. Mob wife. Old money. Coquette. Minimalist. Maximalist.

It feels like every lifestyle now comes with a label, a mood board, a Pinterest board, and a set of rules.

And I have one question:

Why?

Why must every way of living be packaged into an aesthetic? Why can’t people simply exist?

Human beings are naturally inconsistent. We change our minds. We evolve. We wake up wanting different things on different days. One day, I want to spend hours reading a book and pretending I live in a quiet loft somewhere. The next day, I want to dress up, go out, and be surrounded by noise and people.

Neither version of me is fake.

Neither version is more authentic than the other.

They are both me.

Yet social media constantly pushes the idea that we must choose. Pick your niche. Find your aesthetic. Build your personal brand. Stay consistent.

Consistency has become the highest virtue online.

But real life has never been consistent.

A person can enjoy luxury and simplicity. They can love books and parties. They can be ambitious and lazy. They can be disciplined on Monday and completely exhausted by Friday.

That doesn’t make them confused.

It makes them human.

What bothers me most is how quickly these labels become cages. What starts as a fun way to express yourself slowly becomes an identity you feel pressured to maintain. Suddenly, you’re not choosing things because you like them. You’re choosing them because they fit the image you’ve created.

You stop asking, “Do I enjoy this?”

And start asking, “Does this fit my aesthetic?”

That is a dangerous way to live.

Life is too short to experience only one version of yourself.

We are allowed to reinvent ourselves. We are allowed to outgrow things. We are allowed to wake up one morning and decide that the version of us from six months ago no longer fits.

A lifestyle should not be a prison sentence.

Maybe the most authentic lifestyle is having no label at all.

Maybe freedom is allowing yourself to be a hundred different versions of yourself throughout your lifetime.

Because at the end of the day, life is far too rich, far too unpredictable, and far too short to be summarized by a social media term.

You do not need an aesthetic.

You do not need a niche.

You do not need a label.

You only need the freedom to become whoever you want to be next.

Every time I came to Big Daddy’s house, I’d find you downstairs cooking, giving everyone instructions and making sure everything was in order. No matter what was happening, you always made sure I was comfortable.

If there wasn’t any plantain, you’d send someone out to get some just because you knew I liked it. You’d always ask me if I had eaten, why I wasn’t eating, and whether I needed anything.

Those little acts of love are memories I’ll carry with me forever.

You may be gone now, but your love, your kindness, and the memories you gave us will remain with me for the rest of my life. ❤️

Not what’s viral.
Not what’s “aesthetic.”
Not what has 2 million likes and a trending sound behind it.
Not what TikTok has decided is the new definition of romance.

I mean, what do you actually like?

Because somewhere along the way, it feels like we started outsourcing our preferences.

Like we don’t trust our own taste until the internet validates it first.

We consume so many versions of other people’s lives that we forget how to live our own without reference points.

Someone posts a restaurant and suddenly it’s everyone’s favorite spot.
Someone wears a style and it becomes an “aesthetic.”
Someone has a themed birthday and suddenly that’s the standard.
Someone gets proposed to in a flower-filled hotel room and suddenly that’s what love is supposed to look like.

And none of it is inherently bad. A lot of it is beautiful.

But somewhere in all of this, we stopped asking a simpler question:

Do I even like this, or do I just recognize it?

There was a time when romance didn’t need a template. Now it feels like we’re all working from the same script, just different actors, different locations.

And I don’t think I want that script.

I don’t think I want a hotel room I’ve already seen a hundred times online.

I think I’d rather be asked out somewhere quiet, somewhere real, somewhere that feels like us, not like a production.

I’d want thoughtfulness that doesn’t need an audience. The kind where someone actually pays attention, asks my friends what I like, remembers the small things, plans a day that feels like it belongs to my life, not the internet’s idea of it.

And maybe at the end of it, there’s a letter. Maybe a few gifts. Nothing staged. Nothing performative. Nothing designed for strangers to approve of.

Just something that quietly says: I see you. I know you.

Because that’s what I think we’re losing.

Not romance. Not creativity. But ownership of our own experiences.

We’re starting to live in a world where love feels like it has to be documented to be valid, and where private joy feels incomplete unless it can be turned into content.

And when everything becomes content, nothing really belongs to you anymore.

We start comparing our real lives to everyone else’s edited ones.
We start wanting things not because they fit us, but because we’ve seen them performed well by someone else.
We start confusing familiarity with desire.

And that’s the part that unsettles me.

Because what happens when you don’t know what you like unless you’ve seen it online first?

Where does your imagination go when it’s constantly being fed back to you in recycled forms?

Where are the weird, specific, unrepeatable things that only make sense in your world?

I think we’ve blurred the line between inspiration and identity.

And inspiration was never supposed to replace self-awareness.

It was supposed to spark it.

You can see something online and think, that’s beautiful, and still ask yourself, but what would be beautiful for me?

And maybe the answer doesn’t look like anything trending.

Maybe it’s quieter. Stranger. Simpler. More personal.

And that’s not a downgrade.

That’s the point.

Because originality isn’t about being different for the sake of it.

It’s about being honest enough to choose what actually fits you, even when it doesn’t look like what everyone else is doing.

So maybe the real question isn’t what’s trending.

Maybe it’s this:

Do I actually like this, or have I just seen it enough times to believe I do?

Because I don’t think we need more perfectly curated lives.

I think we need more honest ones.

Lives that don’t feel like performances.
Love that doesn’t feel like content.
Moments that don’t need an audience to matter.

Just things that feel like they belong to you.

And maybe that’s where we find it again.

Not in what we copy.

But in what we finally choose for ourselves.

This morning, I woke up before 8 a.m.

Not because an alarm went off.
Not because someone was banging on my door.
Not because there was a roll call I forgot to do the night before.
Not because people were already queuing for the bathroom.
Not because I needed to secure my place in line.

I just… woke up.

I got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, told my mum good morning, and made breakfast for her and my little brother.

There was no rush.

No lecture I was running late for.
No attendance to worry about.
No assignment waiting.
No “I’ll eat when I get back.”

Just… morning.

And somewhere between frying breakfast and serving it, it hit me.

I have graduated.

For the first time in almost twenty years, I don’t have a classroom to report to.

Yes, I start culinary school tomorrow, and I’m genuinely excited about that. But this is different.

The version of me that always had another semester waiting, another exam to complain about, another timetable to follow… she’s done.

University is over.

Those words feel so strange to say.

My final allowance has been sent.
My friends have all gone back home.
Some have travelled back to different states.
The hugs have been hugged.
The tears have been cried.
The “see you soon” messages have already been sent.

A whole chapter quietly packed its bags and left.

I thought graduation would feel like nonstop excitement.

Instead, it feels like standing at the edge of something huge.

I’m happy.
I’m grateful.
I’m proud.

But if I’m being truthful…

I’m scared.

Today felt like the first day in my life where nobody had already decided what came next.

School gave me a calendar.
A schedule.
A destination.

Now, it’s just me.

And somehow that’s both the most freeing and terrifying feeling in the world.

What’s really next?

I know some of the answers.

Tomorrow I begin culinary school.

I’ll also be selling food and snacks because, honestly, that’s something I’m genuinely excited to build.

Life isn’t stopping.

It’s just… changing.

Maybe that’s what growing up actually feels like.

Not one big dramatic moment.

Just waking up one random morning, making breakfast for your family, and realizing the life you’ve known for almost two decades ended while you were sleeping.

Has anyone else felt this after graduating?

Like you’re incredibly excited for what’s ahead, but quietly grieving the version of yourself that only ever knew life through semesters?

Because today, for the first time, adulthood didn’t feel like an idea.

It felt real.

She was reviewing bottled  water.

No, seriously.

And if I’m being honest, it wasn’t even the bottled water that made me stay. It was just… her. She was cool. Effortlessly herself. Then came the cooking videos, and if you know me, you already know I love cooking, so I was sold.

I’ve followed her ever since.

Long before Jeremy.

Long before the engagement that just happened 🥹😂.

Long before everybody started reposting their love story.

So when they got engaged, I didn’t just see another couple on my timeline. I saw something I’d watched unfold from the beginning.

But here’s the thing.

The engagement wasn’t even my favorite part of their story.

The List was.

If you’ve followed Demi for a while, then you know exactly what I’m talking about.

She had a list.

A list of the qualities she wanted in a man.

Not because she was trying to build Mr. Perfect.

Not because she thought a checklist would magically make a husband appear.

She just knew what she wanted.

I remember hearing her constantly say,

“Don’t settle.”

Back then, I used to think, “Easy for you to say.”

Now?

I get it.

Because having a list isn’t about finding someone who’s perfect.

It’s about making sure loneliness doesn’t lower your standards.

When you don’t know what you’re looking for, almost anybody can convince you they’re enough.

But when you’ve already sat down with yourself and decided what actually matters, it’s much harder to negotiate yourself out of the life you prayed for.

That’s what I think The List really is.

Not manifestation.

Not delusion.

Just…

Clarity.

And that’s exactly why I loved watching Demi and Jeremy’s relationship.

Because from everything she’s shared, Jeremy wasn’t every single thing on her list.

There were a few things that weren’t there.

But guess what?

They weren’t her non-negotiables.

They were just nice bonuses.

And I think that’s something a lot of us forget.

Your list shouldn’t stop you from seeing people as human.

It should stop you from abandoning yourself just because someone finally gave you attention.

I genuinely think every girl should have a list.

Not because it guarantees you’ll find the love of your life.

It doesn’t.

Not because writing things down magically makes your future husband appear.

It won’t.

But because one day, when someone walks into your life, you’ll know whether you’re choosing them because they genuinely align with the life you want…

…or because you’re simply tired of waiting.

There’s a difference.

For a long time, I kept my list to myself.

Not because I was embarrassed by it.

Not because I thought people would judge me.

I’ve just had it for over a year, and it always felt personal.

Over time, I’ve added things.

Removed things.

Realized some qualities were preferences while others became non-negotiables.

But every time I look at it, it reminds me of one thing:

Don’t settle.

Not because I’m waiting for a perfect man.

But because I don’t want to forget what I prayed for the moment someone gives me attention.

So…

For the first time, I’m sharing my list.

Not so the internet can judge it.

Not so men can audition for it. 😭

But because maybe another girl needs permission to sit down and ask herself one simple question:

“What do I actually want?”

Here’s mine.

MY LIST 🤞🏾✨

Character

• Kind to people and respectful.

• Open-minded.

• Willing to learn without getting offended.

• Non-judgmental.

• Creative, thoughtful, and patient.

• Intellectually smart and emotionally mature.

• Funny… but not for everybody. Mostly just for me.

• Doesn’t embarrass me in public or private.

• Has proper social etiquette.

• Doesn’t carry fights outside.

• Can teach me things.

• Gossips with me because please, who else am I supposed to gist? 😭

Faith & Family

• Has a genuine relationship with God.

• Wants to be a husband and a father.

• Has a good relationship with his family.

• Understands family dysfunction.

• Can tell me about his family and where he comes from.

Love

• Communicates effectively.

• Consistent and reliable.

• Makes time for me, no excuses.

• Doesn’t tease me more than I already tease myself.

• Likes to spoil me.

• Fights for my honour. (Yes, if you can’t argue with a bus conductor on my behalf, what are we really doing? 😭)

Lifestyle

• Older than me.

• Taller than me.

• Educated.

• Has a good job.

• Has healthy financial habits—not reckless, not stingy.

• Fit, but not a gym bro. I want soft and built.

• Doesn’t drink or smoke heavily.

• Doesn’t sleep all day.

• Eats for pleasure and knows how to cook.

• Adventurous in life… and in bed.

• Knows the basics about periods because I refuse to be explaining biology in 2026.

Bonus Points 🤭

• Tattoos and ear piercings.

• Never insults my music taste.

• Doesn’t make me feel like loving deeply is something to be embarrassed about.

Maybe my list will change in another year.

Maybe it won’t.

But one thing I know for sure is this:

I’d rather wait with clarity than settle out of confusion.

I think one of my biggest fears is becoming a dead lover girl.

Not because I think I’ll stop falling in love.

I don’t think that’s possible.

I think I’ll always be a lover girl.

I just don’t want life to kill that part of me.

Lately, it feels like the love inside me is… tired.

Not dead.

Just exhausted.

You know when you’ve spent so much time reminding yourself, “I deserve better. I deserve better. I deserve better,” that eventually you stop enjoying anything?

That’s where I am.

Because every time someone comes along, it feels like they’re offering the bare minimum.

And I’m supposed to clap because they text back?

I’m supposed to lower my standards because “that’s just how dating is now?”

I’m supposed to be impressed because someone finally communicates?

It feels like everyone is asking for access to me without putting in the effort to know me.

And that’s exhausting.

Sometimes I wonder if the people who are right for me just aren’t where I am yet.

Maybe they’re still growing.

Maybe I’m still growing too.

Maybe we’ll meet in two years.

Maybe we won’t.

And then I start asking myself stupid questions.

Should I stop looking?

Should I retire from love?

Should I become one of those girls who says, “I’m focusing on myself,” when really she’s just scared of being disappointed again?

The funny thing is, I don’t think I was ever built for casual intimacy.

I’ve tried to understand it.

I’ve tried to see the appeal.

Maybe I even entertained it once because everyone else made it seem normal.

But every single time, I found myself asking the same question.

Why are we pretending?

If you’re going to hold me, why don’t you love me?

If you’re going to kiss me, why aren’t you yearning for me?

Why are you trying to touch my body before you’ve even tried to touch my heart?

Maybe I’m dramatic.

Or maybe I’m just a lover girl living in a generation that has confused intimacy with connection.

I don’t want to be somebody’s “for now.”

I don’t want to be another situationship.

I don’t want to be another person you text when you’re bored.

Yearn for me.

Miss me.

Pray for me.

Choose me loudly.

I don’t want to be on the streets anymore.

There’s nothing on these streets.

Which is funny because every now and then, I see people saying,

“Maybe a situationship wouldn’t be so bad.”

See?

We’ve actually lost the plot.

How did someone who believes so deeply in love start craving something she doesn’t even believe in?

I don’t think I miss a situationship.

I think I miss hope.

I miss having a crush.

I miss wondering if someone likes me back.

I miss the excitement of being chosen.

I miss believing that love could happen at any moment.

Then I remember something Demi once said that has stayed with me ever since.

She said that before you find your person, you still have to meet everyone who isn’t.

Imagine your husband is number ten.

If you’re only on number seven, you still have to meet eight.

You still have to survive nine.

Knowing that ten exists doesn’t let you skip the people who teach you what love isn’t.

And maybe that’s the hardest part.

You still have to keep showing up.

You still have to risk disappointment.

You still have to believe.

But believing gets harder when every other story you hear is about ghosting, breadcrumbing, mixed signals, people wanting your body but not your heart.

Sometimes I wonder if love is changing.

Or if we’re just becoming too afraid to ask for the kind of love we actually want.

Maybe that’s why I refuse to become a dead lover girl.

Because even after everything, some stubborn part of me still believes in being loved properly.

I still want the soft kind of love.

The intentional kind.

The kind that isn’t embarrassed to exist.

So no, I don’t think the lover girl in me is dead.

She’s just sitting down for a minute.

Resting.

Waiting for someone who understands that love was never supposed to feel this empty.

But for now please if you’re just trying to sleep with me

Leave me alone🙏🏾😭

For two weeks, from Monday to Friday, final-year students spend almost the entire day in chapel—from 7:30 in the morning until 8 at night. There are breaks in between, of course, but for the most part, it’s just you and the people you’ve spent the last four or five years growing up with.

And somewhere in the middle of my first week, I realized something.

TTG isn’t really about becoming a total graduate.

It’s about preparing you for a total goodbye.

The funniest part is that everyone treats it differently. Suddenly everyone is talking to everyone. There’s the infamous “TTG babe.” People are shooting their shots because, well, what do they have to lose? People are confessing feelings they’ve hidden for years. Old friends are finding each other again. Some people are trying to make peace before everyone goes their separate ways.

And then there was me.

I was walking during one of the breaks when I started seeing familiar faces pass by. People I used to laugh with every day. People I used to call friends. Guys I used to talk to. People I fell out with. People who were once such a huge part of my university experience that I genuinely couldn’t imagine school without them.

Then it hit me.

I’m probably never going to see some of these people again.

Not because we fought.

Not because we hate each other.

Just… because life is ending one chapter and starting another.

Some people will relocate. Some people will move to London, Canada or even Australia . Some people will get jobs in different cities. Some people will disappear off the face of the earth. They’ll become people you occasionally think about when an old picture pops up, and then they’ll disappear again.

It’s crazy how people who once knew every little detail about your life can become complete strangers.

Looking around, I realized there are different kinds of goodbyes.

There are people I owe a conversation before we leave. The friendships that deserve one more chance. The misunderstandings that deserve clarity. The people I’d regret never speaking to again.

Then there are people I’m genuinely grateful I’ll probably never have to see again.

And no, I don’t wish them bad.

I don’t even wish them well.

I don’t wish them anything.

Some people were simply mistakes that belonged to a different version of me. Not everyone deserves a place in the next chapter of your life, and that’s okay.

Maybe that’s what growing up looks like.

Knowing the difference between the people you should fight to keep and the people you should quietly leave behind.

TTG made me realize how short life actually is.

If there’s something you’ve always wanted to say, say it.

If there’s someone you need to apologize to, do it.

If you love someone, tell them.

If you need closure, go after it.

Because one day, without warning, you’ll find yourself sitting in a room full of people who were once your entire world, realizing you’ll never all exist in the same place again.

People always say, “You only live once.”

I don’t think that’s true.

You live every single day.

You only die once.

So stop waiting for the “perfect time” to have the conversations that matter.

And maybe that’s what TTG was really preparing us for.

Not becoming total graduates.

But becoming people brave enough to say goodbye.

I’ll soon be a graduate.

And somehow, that feels both terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

Not the ugly friend.

Not even the “fat” friend.

Just... the biggest one.

Because that’s all it takes.

People hear DUFF and immediately think it means ugly. But I don’t think that’s what it has become anymore. Society just needs someone to rank last. Someone has to be “the bigger friend.” Someone has to be “the less attractive one.” Someone has to be the comparison.

And somehow, that person gets chosen without even applying for the position.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

Not because I suddenly hate myself.

Not because I think I’m ugly.

But because I’ve noticed how easy it is to feel smaller when everyone around you is slimmer.

You can walk into a room feeling beautiful and still somehow become “the chubby friend” because of who you’re standing beside.

That’s what hurts.

Not your body.

The comparison.

People don’t realize how often they do it.

“This is my petite friend.”

“She’s the thick one.”

“She’s the skinny one.”

Why do we need categories at all?

Why can’t we just... exist?

Then there’s another thought that keeps living in my head.

If everybody is trying to lose weight...

Who exactly is meant to stay chubby?

Seriously.

Think about it.

Everywhere you look, someone is on a calorie deficit. Someone is in the gym. Someone is counting protein. Someone is taking walks after dinner. Someone is trying to get their “dream body.”

Slim girls want to be slimmer.

Curvy girls want smaller waists.

Chubby girls want to lose weight.

Even people everyone already calls “body goals” are trying to change something.

So who’s the world leaving room for?

Because if everybody is trying to become smaller, what does that say about the people who are already bigger?

It quietly tells them they’re a work in progress.

That their current body is just a temporary inconvenience.

That they’ll be prettier when...

More lovable when...

More desirable when...

Smaller.

And that’s the lie.

Wanting to lose weight doesn’t automatically mean you hate yourself.

It doesn’t mean your body is wrong.

It doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

People lose weight for health. For confidence. For comfort. For themselves.

But society has made it almost impossible to tell where your own desires end and its expectations begin.

Sometimes I genuinely wonder whether I want to lose weight because I want to.

Or because I’ve spent years being taught that smaller girls get chosen first.

That slimmer girls are photographed more.

Complimented more.

Approached more.

Desired more.

Maybe that’s why being the DUFF hurts so much.

Not because someone called you ugly.

But because you’re constantly reminded that you’re the biggest person in the group.

And somehow, that’s enough for people to treat you differently.

Enough for you to wonder whether you’re taking up too much space.

Enough for you to compare yourself before anyone else does.

The saddest part is that there are girls reading this who have never actually been called the DUFF.

They simply decided they were.

Because comparison is loud, even when nobody says a word.

Maybe the problem isn’t that some of us are bigger.

Maybe the problem is that we’ve built a world where every body is expected to be shrinking into something else.

Where everyone is chasing a version of themselves that hasn’t arrived yet.

Where “I’ll love my body when...” has become a universal sentence.

And maybe that’s why nobody ever wins.

Because if everyone is trying to become someone else, who gets to simply exist as they are?

Maybe the question was never, “Who’s the DUFF?”

Maybe the real question is, why do we keep acting like there has to be one?

Not because it hurts.

Not because my legs cramp or my hips ache.

But because I remember.

There is a particular way someone can hold me so tightly that, for a moment, I forget where I am. Not because of the grip itself, but because my body remembers every other time it couldn’t move. Every other time I couldn’t pull away. Every other time someone held me tighter than I wanted to be held.

There is a particular perfume that can undo years of silence.

One breath, and suddenly I’m remembering people I haven’t thought about in years. Conversations I buried. Nights I convinced myself weren’t that bad. There are songs I can’t listen to anymore. Places I avoid without thinking. Names that don’t sound like names anymore, but memories.

I’ve realized I attach memories to everything.

A song is never just a song.

A perfume is never just a perfume.

A place is never just a place.

Somewhere along the line, my mind decided that if something important happened, everything surrounding it deserved to be remembered too.

And now they’re inseparable.

When I hear that song, I don’t just hear music. I remember who I was when it was playing.

When I smell that perfume, I don’t just recognize the scent. I remember every version of myself that existed around it.

When someone holds me a certain way, I don’t just feel their hands. I feel every hand that came before theirs.

That’s the part I hate.

Because I could meet someone kind. Someone patient. Someone who has done nothing to deserve being compared to people they’ve never met.

They could wear the same perfume.

Play the same song.

Hold me the same way.

And for a split second, none of it belongs to them.

It belongs to my past.

People say the mind forgets.

I don’t think it does.

I think the mind survives.

It edits. It softens the edges. It convinces you that maybe it wasn’t as bad as you remember because believing otherwise would be too heavy to carry.

But the body doesn’t survive by forgetting.

It survives by remembering.

It remembers the pressure of someone’s hands long after it has forgotten their face.

It remembers the smell of a room.

The sound of a voice.

The feeling of fear.

Long before the mind catches up.

Maybe that’s why healing feels so complicated.

You think you’ve moved on until your body disagrees. Until your heart races before your thoughts do. Until your muscles tense before you understand why. Until one scent, one song, one touch tears down every wall you’ve spent years building.

So maybe memories were never meant to live in the mind.

Maybe they’ve always lived in the body.

And if that’s true…

How many parts of ourselves have we mistaken for personality when they’ve really just been memory?

It didn’t arrive with dramatic music or a breakdown or some moment where I finally admitted that what happened to me was wrong.

Instead, it settled in my chest. Quietly.

I became really good at saying, “It wasn’t that deep.” I convinced myself that I was okay because I was still functioning. I laughed. I went to class. I made content. I talked to people. Life moved on, so I assumed I had moved on too.

I hadn’t.

I had simply buried it.

For months, sometimes years, I treated painful memories like they had an expiration date. If enough time passed, then surely they couldn’t hurt anymore.

Until one random day.

No warning. No trigger I could explain.

A memory would return, and suddenly I wasn’t remembering it. I was feeling it.

That’s when the questions started.

Did I downplay this?

Why did I convince myself it wasn’t a big deal?

Why did I spend so much time trying to figure out what I did wrong instead of asking why it happened at all?

Why was I so determined to become the easier person to forgive?

Because that’s what I do.

I forgive.

I tell everyone, “Don’t hate them.”

I say, “It’s okay.”

I become the first person to minimize my own pain because somehow that feels easier than admitting I was hurt.

People think forgiveness means healing.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes forgiveness is just another way of avoiding grief.

The strangest part is realizing that my body remembered everything I kept telling my mind to forget.

The chest gets heavy.

The memories get louder.

The questions become impossible to ignore.

And suddenly I’m sitting there wondering if I ever truly processed what happened, or if I just became really good at surviving it.

Maybe that’s what suppressed trauma looks like.

Not forgetting.

Just becoming so accustomed to carrying it that you mistake the weight for part of who you are.

So how many things have I convinced myself I survived, when all I really did was bury them?

That day was a good day.

She was home alone, floating, on cloud nine. And whenever she was on cloud nine, she slept her problems away.

Someone came over to pick up something.

She was asleep when he arrived. Her brother told her he was around. She mumbled “okay,” still half asleep. They gossiped like they always did. They talked for a while, but all she wanted was to go back to bed.

The strange part was how alert her body suddenly became.

She had never been alert around him. He was someone she trusted. Someone who had always felt safe.

He held her waist. That wasn’t unusual. But this time it felt different. It felt invasive. It felt wrong.

To this day, she still doesn’t know whether it was the drugs or her instincts trying to warn her.

Then his hands were inside her.

For a long time, she wondered if she had let it happen. And if she had, why would she? He was never someone she wanted. Never someone she desired.

He got on top of her.

She couldn’t believe it was happening. She kept closing her eyes, hoping that if she opened them again, it would all be over. She was too intoxicated to fight. Too intoxicated to fully understand what was happening to her body.

At some point, he held her hands so tightly that it hurt.

Eventually, she found a moment to push him off.

He laughed.

He asked why they had stopped. Said they were only just getting started.

She said no.

She said she was good.

She said she needed a break.

Then her brother walked into the room.

She told him to get dressed and used that moment to leave. She sat in the living room of her own house, feeling like a stranger, trying to understand what had just happened.

She asked him to get her the morning-after pill.

Then the questions started.

Why didn’t she stop him?

Why did she freeze?

Why did she let it happen?

But as time passed, she remembered something important.

She did stop him.

Her body rejected him, even while she was intoxicated. Even while her mind was trying to catch up.

The part she still can’t forget is what happened after.

He asked for a review.

As if nothing violent had happened.

As if it had all been normal.

He was supposed to be the safe place. The person she could run to.

Instead, he became the person she had to run from.

Maybe what died on December 26 wasn’t her.

Maybe it was the version of her that believed she was safe with him.

And if someone’s body says no before their mind can find the words…

Was there ever really a yes?

i need to get over 2024.

it’s getting tiring talking about it.

i saw this picture, and it reminded me of a conversation i was having with my best friend. i told her that at some point, i have to stop linking every bad thing that happens to me to 2024. every shitty thing, every weird thing, every sad thing, every irritating thing. not everything is because of that year anymore.

something in me died in 2024.

i’ve said that sentence so many times that i think i’ve started believing it’s the only thing worth saying. but the truth is, when something dies, something else is born.

and i’ve been living as that “something else” for almost two years now.

maybe it’s time to stop saying the old me, the real me, before everything happened.

because who says this isn’t the real me?

i am who i am now.

i’m not anxiously attached anymore. i don’t like talking about how i feel unless i’m practically on my deathbed. i don’t really believe in female and male friendships the way i used to. i’m still a lover girl, but relationships and commitment scare the fuck out of me now. i don’t really feel my emotions until i’ve shoved them down for so long that they come back all at once. i do things without thinking. i react before i process.

a whole lot has changed.

some of those changes i hate.

some of them probably kept me alive.

either way, they’re mine.

i can spend the rest of my life trying to resurrect the girl i used to be, or i can finally meet the person i’ve become.

because maybe that’s the problem.

i’ve spent two years mourning someone who’s never coming back.

maybe it’s time to stop calling the dead.

not because he didn’t want you, but because you couldn’t see yourself pausing your life for a relationship that, realistically, wasn’t going to benefit either of you, especially you.

you’re leaving soon, and he still has a few years before he can truly leave too.

it’s fucked up because you’ve hurt him over and over again. you’ve told him to buzz off more times than you can count, not because you don’t care, but because you don’t want to get attached again. so you keep ending things before they can get any deeper.

but mentally, you know where your heart is. and your head knows it too.

i saw a tiktok about keeping a pair of jeans that don’t fit anymore. you leave them hanging in your cupboard, taking up space because you keep telling yourself that one day they’ll fit again. but by the time that day comes, you might not even want those jeans anymore. all you’ve really done is waste space waiting for something that may never matter again.

and that’s exactly what this feels like.

i don’t even think i have the energy to like anyone anymore. i’m just... tired. tired of trying, tired of overthinking, tired of wondering whether i’m making the right decisions.

what scares me the most isn’t even losing him. it’s the fear that i’ll never find someone who loves me like this again.

and sometimes, in the quiet moments, i can’t help but wonder if i just let my soulmate walk away.

fuck

And somehow, it’s gotten worse with time.

Someone can tell me they’re going to do something, promise they’ll be there, or say I don’t have to worry, and something inside me immediately prepares for disappointment.

People call it trust issues, but I don’t think that’s what this is.

I want to believe people.

I just can’t.

It’s like my body has accepted disappointment as the more realistic outcome, so it stays ready for it at all times. My guard is always up. I’m always in fight or flight over things that haven’t even happened yet.

Living like that is exhausting.

I think this version of me is a compilation of every broken promise and every moment someone said one thing but did another.

None of those moments seemed big on their own.

But together, they taught me that words don’t always become actions.

Maybe that’s why I don’t make promises.

Not because I don’t mean well, but because I know how long a broken promise can live inside someone.

I hope one day I can believe people again.

Because living in constant anticipation of disappointment isn’t living at all.

Guarded.

Always trying to ghost.

Difficult to reach.

The kind of person who takes hours to reply after realizing the attachment is building up, keeps their feelings hidden, and always seems prepared to leave.

But they are wrong.

I was not born avoidant.

I became avoidant.

There was a version of me that loved without strategy.

A version that did not analyze text messages like crime scenes.

A version that did not need reassurance because trust came naturally.

I used to believe people.

Not because I was naive.

Because it never occurred to me that love could be a performance.

I gave people access to my heart the way some people hand out directions.

Freely.

Without suspicion.

Without conditions.

And for a while, I thought that was a beautiful thing.

Then came the humiliation rituals.

Not heartbreak.

Humiliation.

Because heartbreak is painful.

Humiliation is transformative.

Heartbreak says someone left.

Humiliation says they made sure you knew exactly why.

It is being cheated on and then compared to the person who replaced you.

It is your partner you were in love with since you met them telling you all they had was limerence and that’s why they left.

It is watching someone treat a stranger better than they ever treated you.

It is hearing “you’re too much” from someone who once begged for every piece of your attention.

It is becoming the joke after being the lover.

The embarrassment lingers longer than the grief.

And after enough humiliations, your nervous system starts taking notes.

It learns.

It adapts.

It decides that vulnerability is expensive.

So slowly, you stop offering it.

Not all at once.

Quietly.

You stop double texting.

You stop explaining yourself.

You stop saying “I miss you” first.

You stop asking people to stay.

You stop believing words.

You stop expecting permanence.

And one day you realize something terrifying:

You have become the exact type of person you never understood.

The avoidant one.

The irony is that people think avoidant people do not love deeply.

Sometimes they love too deeply.

Deep enough to remember every betrayal.

Deep enough to remember exactly what happened the last time they trusted someone completely.

So now every new connection arrives carrying old evidence.

Every beautiful beginning gets cross-examined.

Every promise gets treated like a witness statement.

Every person is innocent until proven guilty.

And nobody ever fully passes the investigation.

I do not leave because I do not care.

I leave because caring has cost me more than I knew how to survive.

I do not struggle with attachment because I feel nothing.

I struggle because I remember too much.

Sometimes I miss the old version of me.

The version that believed love was something to experience instead of something to survive.

The version that did not see humiliation hiding behind every act of vulnerability.

The version that trusted first and questioned later.

Maybe that version was reckless.

Maybe she was too open.

Maybe she got hurt too easily.

But she was alive.

And I think that is what grief feels like.

Not grieving the people who hurt you.

Grieving the person you were before they did.

Who is everyone performing for?

Because lately, I feel like I’m living inside one giant reality TV show.

Nobody says what they mean anymore.

Nobody wants what they say they want.

And everybody is acting.

The place I noticed it first was dating.

Not because dating is uniquely terrible, but because that’s where the performances become impossible to ignore.

You’ll meet someone and watch them put on an Oscar-worthy performance.

They’ll text you every morning.

They’ll ask about your day.

They’ll remember tiny details.

They’ll create entire storylines.

Meanwhile, all they wanted was sex.

And that’s what confuses me.

Not the sex.

The performance.

Because why are we acting?

Why are we doing rehearsals?

Why are we holding auditions?

Why are we creating fictional characters?

If your goal is sex, say you want sex.

Because they feel they have to give a woman a show

Before she lets them into her panties.

If your goal is a relationship, say you want a relationship.

If your goal is absolutely nothing, then say that too.

But don’t embarrass both her and yourself

Why is everyone determined to turn honesty into a side quest?

And the thing is, this isn’t even just about men.

Everybody is performing.

People perform wealth.

People perform happiness.

People perform confidence.

People perform busyness.

People perform nonchalance.

Some people are pretending not to care.

Some people are pretending to care.

Nobody is standing up and saying, “Hello everyone, this is actually who I am.”

Instead, we’re all watching one another’s carefully curated characters.

It’s exhausting.

Especially because so much of the performance isn’t even necessary.

Half the lies people tell could be solved by a single honest sentence.

But apparently honesty is out of fashion.

Instead, we have branding.

Personal branding.

Relationship branding.

Friendship branding.

Lifestyle branding.

Everybody is a product.

Everybody is a campaign.

Everybody is managing public relations.

And for what?

That’s the question I keep coming back to.

For what?

Because eventually the performance ends.

The mask slips.

The truth comes out.

The situationship becomes a disaster.

The fake rich person runs out of money.

The fake nice person gets tired.

The fake nonchalant person accidentally develops emotions.

The truth always arrives eventually.

So why waste everybody’s time?

Who is the audience?

Who are we trying so desperately to impress?

Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a lot of people are working overtime to avoid the terrifying experience of simply being themselves.

And honestly?

That sounds far more exhausting than the truth.

I don’t want wandering eyes.

I don’t want compliments tossed at me like loose change.

I want to be touched.

Not urgently.

Not carelessly.

Not because the night is long and loneliness is persuasive.

I want to be touched like someone is trying to learn a language they’ve spent years hearing but never speaking.

I want someone to notice the places I hide.

The places I laugh over.

The places I pretend don’t matter.

I want them to trace the map of me without trying to conquer it.

I want curiosity.

I want patience.

I want the kind of chemistry that starts long before a hand reaches for a waist.

The kind that begins in conversations.

In glances that stay a second too long.

In silence that feels like a secret.

I want to sit across from someone and feel the room rearrange itself around us.

I want to know exactly what they mean when they say my name.

I want to know what it feels like to be looked at without being consumed.

To be wanted without being reduced.

To be desired without becoming a destination.

I want laughter in between.

I want tangled sheets and tangled stories.

I want the softness that comes after the wanting has nowhere left to go.

I want someone who reaches for me in the morning the same way they reached for me in the dark.

Someone who doesn’t rush away from the tenderness of being known.

Because maybe that’s what I’ve been hungry for all along.

Not bodies.

Not pleasure.

Not the collision of skin against skin.

But the miracle of finding someone who stays after they’ve seen all of you.

And still wants more.

they like me.
they care about me.
they enjoy talking to me.
they think i’m beautiful.
they think i’m funny.
they think i’m worth keeping around.

and somehow, that almost makes it worse.

because if they hated me, at least it would make sense.

instead, there is always something.

the timing.
the distance.
the circumstances.
the uncertainty.
the fear.

there is always a reason why they want me but cannot fully choose me.

and a reason I can’t fully choose them as well.

and after a while, you start wondering what that does to a person.

what does it do to someone to be wanted repeatedly but never claimed?

to constantly hear “i like you” while feeling the absence of “i choose you.”

i think that’s why i leave.

people think leaving is easy.

it isn’t.

leaving is what happens when you’ve stood in the same place for too long waiting for certainty that never arrives.

it’s what happens when your heart gets tired of translating mixed signals into hope.

so i leave.

again.
and again.
and again.

and every time i do, i tell myself i’m protecting my peace.

but if i’m honest, there’s a small part of me that wonders whether i’m just tired.

tired of sharing people.

tired of pretending certain things don’t hurt.

tired of acting like i don’t notice when i’m being placed beside something else instead of being chosen over it.

and maybe that’s the thought that keeps me awake some nights.

not whether someone will love me.

i know people can love me.

the question is whether someone will ever make me feel like i am theirs and they are mine.

without hesitation.

without competition.

without conditions.

just certainty.

the kind of certainty that allows your nervous system to finally unclench.

the kind that makes you stop preparing for disappointment before anything has even happened.

the kind that feels like coming home instead of waiting at the door.

sometimes i wonder when that person will arrive.

sometimes i wonder if they’re wondering the same thing about me.

and until then, i suppose i’ll keep carrying this strange grief.

not the grief of losing people.

but the grief of never quite having them.

have you eaten?
what did you eat?
are you sure? because if you know me, you know i love food.

i love baking.
i love cooking.
i love watching people enjoy the things I make, there is something beautiful about feeding people.

something beautiful about knowing they are full. which is ironic.

because somewhere along the line, i stopped extending that same care to myself.

if you studied me long enough, you would notice it.

you would notice how much i talk about food compared to how little i actually eat.

you would notice the half-finished meals.

the untouched plates.

the “i’m not really hungry.”

the “i’ll eat later.”

you would notice how casually i skip meals and how effortlessly i pretend that it isn’t happening.

and maybe that’s because i don’t think this was ever really about food.

i think it was about comparison.

i think it was about seeing certain girls and feeling something inside me shift.

girls whose bodies seem softer.

smaller.

prettier.

girls that make you understand things you never wanted to understand.

the kind of girls that make you think,

“oh.”

“that makes sense.”

and suddenly you’re not hungry anymore.

not because you’re full.

but because your brain has started connecting things that were never supposed to be connected.

a body to love.

a waistline to worthiness.

a number on a scale to being chosen.

i know how irrational that sounds.

trust me, i know.

i know bodies are not explanations.

i know beauty is not a competition.

i know people do not leave because someone else’s stomach is flatter.

i know all of this intellectually.

and yet.

there is something terrifying about knowing something is untrue and still feeling controlled by it.

because every now and then i’ll see someone.

someone beautiful.

someone whose body looks like the kind of body social media rewards.

the kind of body men write poems about.

the kind of body that makes a room go quiet.

and before i know it, i am comparing.

then calculating.

then criticizing.

then bargaining.

and somehow food becomes the casualty.

it becomes the thing i withhold.

the thing i negotiate with.

the thing i punish myself through.

and the strangest part is that most people would never know.

because eating disorders don’t always look the way people think they do.

sometimes they look like jokes.

sometimes they look like discipline.

sometimes they look like a girl who says she’s fine.

sometimes they look like someone who loves feeding everybody else.

i don’t know when exactly it became this way.

i don’t know when food stopped being food.

i don’t know when seeing another woman became enough to ruin my appetite for an entire day.

and maybe that’s what scares me the most.

not the hunger.

the fact that i can no longer tell where the hunger ends and the comparison begins.

because at what point does insecurity become something else?

at what point does “i’ll eat later” become a habit?

then a pattern?

then a lifestyle?

then a disorder?

at what point does a person stop skipping meals and start disappearing from themselves?

i don’t know.

i genuinely don’t know.

all i know is that if you asked me whether i’ve eaten today, i could probably tell you what everyone around me had for breakfast.

and somehow, that feels like part of the problem.