How I Learned to Leave Myself Behind — and What It Took to Return Home

This is the truth of how I learned to abandon myself in order to belong — and what it’s taken to slowly unravel that conditioning so I can feel safe being who I truly am.

The Disappearing

As a little girl, I felt everything. Deeply. Wildly. Instinctively.

But I grew up in a world where there was no space for big emotions — not mine, not anyone’s. In my home, emotions were landmines. Volatile. Unpredictable. There was no space to be held in tenderness, only reactions. And I was wired for intensity — a Manifestor child with an emotional authority and nowhere safe to land.

My tears were inconvenient. My rage, too loud. My joy, too much.

What I learned early on was that feeling was dangerous. Expression invited punishment. Authenticity made me unsafe.

So, I began the long, slow work of disappearing.

The Mirror

I was raised in the early 90s — an era shaped by hustle, stoicism and survival. Our parents didn’t have access to nervous system wisdom or emotional language. They were doing their best to keep everything afloat.

But the culture was rigid. Uniform. We were taught to follow the mold — to be good, productive, compliant. Individuality was not encouraged. Stillness wasn’t safe. Beauty was surface-deep. Needs were weaknesses.

There was no time for tenderness, no capacity for soul.

And so, I adapted. I became who I needed to be — palatable, compliant, invisible in all the right ways. I turned down my volume, tuned out my instincts, and let the world shape me into something acceptable.

Self-abandonment became my rhythm. It felt like love. It felt like safety.

But it was silence.

The Walk Away

Years later, I found myself six years deep into a relationship; engaged, moving through the milestones we thought we were supposed to, and yet, I was gone. Dull. Numb. A stranger to myself.

I couldn’t tell you what kind of restaurant I wanted to dine in — the decision was always made for me.
I didn’t know what kind of music stirred me — no one ever asked.
My presence was an afterthought. I wasn’t taken seriously. I was supportive, agreeable, there — but never in it.

We had a date. The venue was booked. We’d paid the deposit for photographer. I even had the dress. From the outside, it looked like everything was falling into place. But on the inside, something felt off — quietly, undeniably off. I couldn’t see it. Not the details. Not the gathering of our people. Not the feeling of it all coming together. There was this blankness, a kind of hollow space in my mind where I thought the picture should be. Where I thought I should be. But I wasn’t there. All I could feel was the deep ache of absence — my own.

There was no me in that life. No essence. No truth. Just a beautifully curated container I didn’t belong to.

I didn’t have a five-year plan. I didn’t have a neat exit strategy.
But I had a knowing — sharp, clear and uncompromising.

I couldn’t keep building a life that required me to betray myself.

So, I walked away. From the engagement. From the relationship. From the version of my life that looked good but felt false. I left not because I had it all figured out — but because I couldn’t keep disappearing.

It was a quiet, courageous rebellion — one that began not in fire, but in grief.

I didn’t yet know who I was. But I was ready to find out. On my own terms. In my own way. Without a template. Without performance.

The Return

Now, as a 36-year-old woman, I live differently.

I move slower. I listen inward. I create rhythms that honor my body. I hold space for my daughter in ways I never received — and in doing so, I reparent myself.

The journey hasn’t been linear. The unraveling is still happening. But I no longer abandon myself to be chosen. I no longer silence my joy, my needs or my bigness to keep the peace.

What I’m building now is real — not perfect, but mine.

I’m not performing. I’m present.
I’m not small. I’m sovereign.
And I’m finally home in myself.