The Art of Self
There’s a certain weight to life, one that can feel inescapable. At times, it’s loud, crashing over you like a relentless wave. Other times, it’s quieter, a lingering heaviness that follows you everywhere, making it hard to move, to think, to breathe. And yet, somehow, we carry it. We press on, even when the path feels impossibly hard.
For me, that weight came from within. It was the quiet voice that always seemed to find the cracks in my confidence. It would tell me I didn’t belong, that I wasn’t enough, that I was somehow missing what everyone else seemed to have.
Growing up, that voice shaped how I saw myself. At home, I often felt like the odd one out, surrounded by siblings who seemed so connected, like they fit together in a way I couldn’t. At school, even when I knew the answer, I couldn’t bring myself to raise my hand. The fear of being wrong, of standing out, kept me frozen. And in my head, I convinced myself that everyone else had life figured out, while I was just fumbling through.
That anxiety—crippling at times—stunted me in ways I didn’t fully realize until much later. It wasn’t just about not speaking up; it was about missing out on the chance to learn and grow. I was so scared of being wrong that I stopped asking questions altogether, even when I was curious. It’s something that held me back for years, and I’ve often thought of myself as a late bloomer because of it.
Now, at 38, I’m finally starting to embrace something I wish I’d understood sooner: It’s okay to be wrong. In fact, it’s necessary. Growth doesn’t come from always having the right answers—it comes from curiosity, from asking questions, from being brave enough to say, I don’t know, but I want to find out. The value isn’t in perfection; it’s in the willingness to take that leap of faith into the unknown.
Looking back, I realize how much power that silence had over me. When you keep everything locked inside, it doesn’t go away—it just grows. Those emotions don’t disappear; they wait, buried deep, until they find their way out. And when they do, it’s rarely in the way you’d expect.
The process of unlearning that silence wasn’t easy. It took time, reflection, and a lot of work to understand what I was feeling and why it mattered. What I’ve come to realize is that growth happens in three stages: feeling, processing, and sharing.
The first step is to feel—to let the emotions hit you and sit with them, even when it’s uncomfortable. The tidal wave of anger, sadness, or confusion isn’t something to run from; it’s something to embrace. Then, there’s the space to process—to untangle what happened, why it happened, and how it’s affecting you. This part takes time, but it’s where clarity begins. Finally, there’s the act of sharing—finding a way to express what you’re feeling, whether that’s through writing, talking to a therapist, or opening up to someone you trust.
Learning how to move through those stages has been transformative for me. It’s helped me navigate the moments when life feels overwhelming and find a way to make sense of the chaos. It’s also taught me that not everyone will have the capacity to hold space for your emotions, and that’s okay. The act of sharing isn’t about fixing things or finding answers—it’s about creating release, a way to move forward.
Sometimes, life breaks us down so we can rebuild. For me, that growth meant confronting the lies I had lived under for so long—the ones that told me I didn’t belong, that I wasn’t enough, that my voice didn’t matter. Those beliefs were never true, but they felt real because I carried them for so long.
The process of rebuilding wasn’t a single moment of revelation; it was a series of small steps. Forgiving myself for being scared. For staying small. For not believing in my own worth. And along the way, I started to see the strength in the struggle, the resilience in showing up, even when it felt impossible.
Growth doesn’t mean the struggles disappear. It doesn’t mean you stop hearing the doubts or feeling the weight. But it does mean you learn how to navigate them. You learn to see them for what they are: moments, not definitions. And through that process, you begin to reclaim your story.
The beauty of this journey is that it’s ongoing. It’s not about becoming perfect or finding all the answers. It’s about learning to love the person you are, flaws and all. It’s about forgiving yourself for the mistakes and embracing the messiness of being human.
This is why we do it—not because it’s easy, but because it’s worth it. It’s about creating a life that feels true, a self that feels whole, and a strength that no one can take away.
Piece by piece, moment by moment, it’s possible to find peace within yourself. It’s possible to build something beautiful out of the brokenness. And in the end, that’s what matters most: not the struggle itself, but the art of rising through it.
