As the strategies I once used to survive—within my family, my culture, my relationships—begin to loosen their grip, something unexpected happens. After the shame and guilt come and go, after the fear of being alone, of hurting or disappointing others begins to dissolve, I find that what’s left is peace. Not ease, exactly—but clarity. A quiet strength. A sense of alignment—not with what others want from me, but with my own nature, my own truth.
I no longer feel the need to adjust myself to fit. I used to flow around people like water, molding myself to the room, the mood, the unspoken expectations. Now I feel more like a container. Not rigid—but held. Contained. Whole.
It has taken enormous courage not to bend. My palms sweat. My nervous system still lights up in protest. But something in me is steady now. Some inner voice, clear and quiet, says: this is who I am. And I trust it enough to keep going.
The self I’ve returned to isn’t new. She’s been here, waiting, beneath the roles and the fear and the noise. And now, at last, we are back together.