Exposing myself even more with this one

There’s something terrifying about opening up. Not in the casual way we do with friends over coffee, but in the real, raw way that strips you of pretense. I’ve done it before—shared bits and pieces of myself with the world. But this time feels different. Heavier. More honest. And somehow, more necessary.

I used to think vulnerability was a weakness. Growing up, I watched people around me keep their cards close to their chest. Emotions were private. Struggles were hidden. The goal was to appear fine—always fine. Even if your world was burning inside, the mask had to stay on. I inherited that. I wore it like armor.

But armor gets heavy. Pretending gets exhausting. And somewhere along the line, I started asking myself: what would happen if I just told the truth?

So, here it is. A deeper truth. A scar I’ve hesitated to show. I’m not writing this for attention or validation. I’m writing this because someone, somewhere, might need to hear it. And maybe, just maybe, I need to say it aloud.

Part One: The Fear of Not Being Enough

For most of my life, I’ve battled the quiet voice that whispers, “You’re not enough.” It’s sneaky. Sometimes it shows up when I’m trying something new—“You’ll fail anyway.” Other times, it creeps in when I’m surrounded by people—“You don’t belong here.”

I’ve worn many masks to silence that voice. I’ve been the overachiever. The people-pleaser. The perfectionist. I’ve tried to earn worth through productivity, through making others happy, through hiding the parts of me I thought were “too much” or “not enough.”

But you can’t outrun that voice. Not for long.

I remember a moment—I was in my room, the door closed, everything silent except the sound of my own breathing. And I just broke. No big reason. Just years of pretending finally crashing down. I cried. Not a few gentle tears. The ugly kind. The I-don’t-even-know-what’s-wrong kind. And in that moment, I felt the rawest version of myself—scared, sad, tired.

That was the moment I realized I needed to stop performing. I needed to start healing.

Part Two: The Things I Don’t Talk About

There are parts of my story I’ve kept locked away because they’re messy and complicated. But if I’m being honest—and that’s what this whole thing is about—I’ll admit that I’ve carried shame for things I couldn’t control.

Like the way my anxiety can paralyze me out of nowhere. Or the depressive episodes that come like storms—unpredictable and relentless. I’ve been in therapy. I’ve tried journaling, meditation, self-help books, medication. Some days are good. Others are dark. And I used to feel like I had to hide the bad days so people wouldn’t think less of me.

But hiding made it worse.

Here’s another truth: I’ve struggled with identity. With knowing who I am when I’m not doing something for someone else. I’ve gotten so used to defining myself by external things—my job, my relationships, my accomplishments—that when those things shift, I’m left asking, “Who am I, really?”

And maybe you’ve been there too. Maybe you’ve looked in the mirror and not recognized the person staring back. If so, I see you. You’re not alone.

Part Three: The Strength in Softness

This is the part I never thought I’d write: softness is not weakness.

For so long, I equated being strong with being unshakable. But the people who’ve helped me the most in life—the ones who’ve inspired me—weren’t invincible. They were real. They cried. They questioned themselves. They admitted when they didn’t have it all figured out.

There’s power in saying, “I’m not okay.” There’s courage in reaching out, in asking for help, in saying, “I’m trying.”

And that’s where I am. Trying.

Trying to accept that healing isn’t linear. That I can still love myself in the middle of the mess. That growth doesn’t always look like success—it can look like getting out of bed when you don’t want to. It can look like setting boundaries. Like forgiving yourself.

Part Four: What I’m Learning

If you’ve read this far, thank you. I want to leave you with a few things I’ve learned through this journey—things I’m still learning, really:

You are allowed to take up space. You don’t have to shrink yourself to make others comfortable.
You are not your worst day. You are not your failures or mistakes or the thoughts that try to drag you down.
Healing is not linear. There will be setbacks. That doesn’t mean you’re back at square one. Every step counts.
It’s okay to outgrow people, places, and patterns. Change is part of becoming.
Your story matters. Even the parts you’re scared to share. Especially those parts.

Part Five: Why I Keep Writing

I write these things not because I have all the answers, but because writing helps me process. It helps me find the light in the dark. And I hope, by exposing myself a little more with this one, I’m giving someone else permission to be more open too.

We live in a world that rewards filters, highlight reels, and curated perfection. But underneath all of that, people are craving truth. Connection. Something real.

So here I am. Real.

Not always confident. Not always certain. But trying. Growing. Learning.

And if you’re doing the same—whether it’s quietly or loudly—I’m proud of you.

Final Thoughts

“Exposing myself even more with this one” isn’t just about sharing what’s hard. It’s about reclaiming the parts of me I thought had to stay hidden. It’s about choosing honesty over perfection. Depth over surface. Connection over performance.

I don’t know where this road leads. But I know I don’t want to walk it pretending anymore.

So here’s to showing up—messy, honest, human.

Here’s to healing.

And here’s to you—wherever you are on your journey.