This
year has been challenging, but December, December has been a tsunami of
emotions. I was heartbroken, I was falling apart, I was tired in a way
sleep couldn’t fix. I found myself breaking over things I once told myself I
was already over, learning that some wounds don’t reopen loudly – they ache
quietly, then suddenly all at once.
I
realized how much of my heart I have given away, only for it to be torn apart
piece by piece. I spent my entire adult life living for my family, working day in
and out for nearly two decades. I put my dreams on hold, told myself sacrifice
was love, told myself endurance was strength. Somewhere along the way, I fell
into depression, and when I finally started healing, I was push into darkness
all over again.
Healing
has a way of showing us the truth I’ve been avoiding. I saw how I was never a
priority. How presence was always available for others, but scarce for me. How
it was easy to show up for friends’ celebrations and emergencies, yet somehow
impossible to be there for my birthday. Small moments like that don’t break
you immediately – they settle quietly, until you realize what they mean.
And
strangely, I’m grateful for the clarity. Because now I understand this: no
matter how much I heal, I cannot heal in the same environment that shaped my
wounds. I cannot grow in a house filled with emotional unavailability. Choosing
to step away isn’t bitterness – it’s self-preservation. It’s me finally
choosing myself, not because I don’t love them, but because I deserve a life
where my heart is allowed to exist, too.