pain – Adulting & Motherhood

Coming Home to Myself

I found my purpose not in saving others, but in finally choosing myself

I used to wake up every day and pour myself out for everyone else. My purpose was stitched together with the needs of my family — their dreams, their survival, their peace. First it was my parents and siblings. Then, when I began to suffocate under the weight of that, I started telling myself I was doing it for my future children. That somehow made the pain more noble. Gave it a pretty frame. But inside, I was hollow. My wins weren’t mine. My labor, my sacrifices — never mine to enjoy. The fruits were handed over, and I was expected to smile through the starvation of my spirit.

Then I had my daughter.

And for the first time in years, I felt life breathe back into me. She gave me something to fight for. Something to anchor me. But still… there was a hole. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. It would quietly creep in at night or in the quiet moments. I had love around me — kind of — and yet this emptiness kept knocking. Loud. Unrelenting.

I thought I was loving myself. I had confidence. I could make people laugh, put myself together, show up. But now I know — confidence isn’t the same as self-love. Self-love is not just smiling in the mirror. It’s not just buying yourself flowers. It’s standing tall and saying: I am worthy. I deserve good things. I don’t need to perform to be loved. And anyone who thinks otherwise can get the hell out of my way.

This year, something shifted.

I looked around and realized I’d skipped the most important lesson — me. I’d skipped learning how to be my own home, my own source of joy. I thought love had to come from giving. That I had to earn it. Prove it. Bleed for it. But now I know — I already am it. I am love. I am enough. Every single version of me, even the messy ones, especially the messy ones.

I used to believe what I was told growing up: that I was too much and not enough at the same time. That no one would ever love me unless they were passing through. That I could win a hundred medals and still be losing. That dreams were dangerous because disappointment was guaranteed.

But no more.

I’m done shrinking. Done swallowing my worth. Done bending backwards for people who only know how to take. I am not a sacrifice. I am not an extension of someone else’s life. I am my own.

I am effin loveable. Anyone who gets to be loved by me is lucky. I’m the prize. The damn treasure. A queen, a goddess, dripping in gold, wrapped in grace, and rising with fire. The little girl who used to stay up all night studying, desperate for approval — she was always more than enough. She is extraordinary. And I see her now. I hold her close.

I can’t rewrite my past. But I’m rewriting my future. Today. With every breath. Every boundary. Every time I choose me.

I don’t just want love anymore. I am love.

And when love comes knocking again — real love, warm love, love that sees me — I’ll be ready. Because it’s just coming home to where it already lives.

A Moment of Rage and Reflection

Today, my mother said something that set my soul on fire. She told me that in the future, she never wants to be involved in any “drama” again. That I should have my own place, that my man should have his own, and that I shouldn’t stay with a man unless he marries me.

And just like that, I felt her judgment once more. The familiar sting of her criticism, the belief that my choices were wrong. She said I needed to retrace my steps—go back, reassess what went wrong, and see how I ended up in this situation. It’s always easy to say “you should’ve done this” or “you should’ve done that.” But she doesn’t see the full picture. She doesn’t know the pain of walking through life always second-guessing yourself, always thinking you’re not enough, but still finding the strength to keep going.

When she said living together before marriage was a mistake, I couldn’t help but wonder: What’s next? Are you going to say I had the baby too soon, moved in too quickly? She said, “No, the baby isn’t a mistake,” and I wanted to believe her, but the words she didn’t say hit harder. I’ve never thought for a second that my daughter was a mistake. She saved me. She gave me life when I was standing on the edge. My daughter taught me what it means to truly fight for something, for someone.

But even when I said that, when I explained that every decision I made was based on the information I had at the time, she still couldn’t see. How could she? How could anyone understand the complexities of a situation when they’ve never walked in your shoes? I didn’t need to retrace my steps, because I’ve already done that a thousand times. What I needed was support, not judgment.

And when she accused me of punishing myself for him, that’s when the weight of it all started to feel unbearable. I’m not punishing myself. I’m taking a break—for me. I need a break from everything: from relationships, from heartache, from pressure. I need space to heal, to focus on my daughter and what’s best for her future. I’m not obsessed with finding a steady guy, and I told her that. If one comes along, great, but if not, I’ll be fine.

But of course, she couldn’t hear me. She just shut down, pretended to sleep, and left me with nothing but her silence.

I hate that she made me feel like I’m the one who’s failed. Like I’m the one who’s to blame for everything. I know she’s judged me for being with him—he’s not rich, not highly educated, doesn’t live in a big modern house. She’s always seen what he’s not, never what he is. But here’s the truth: I’ve sacrificed so much for her, taken care of her without hesitation, no questions asked. I’ve never sought recognition, never asked for anything in return. All I’ve ever wanted is empathy, support, and for someone to stand by me when I’m broken.

I’ve carried so much on my shoulders, for so long, that sometimes it feels like I’m drowning. I’ve given everything—time, money, energy—without a thought for myself. And now, when I need someone to just be there, when I’m exhausted and depleted, she turns away.

She’ll never be proud of me, I know that now. But what I can’t accept is how she judges me, how she belittles the choices I’ve made, when she’s been stuck in her own cycle of pain for so many years. She stayed in a marriage where she was constantly cheated on, a marriage that tore her apart, but she never left. She stayed because of what people would think, because of the shame, the fear of judgment. And yet here she is, telling me I should’ve done things differently.

I see it for what it is now—I am not her, and I don’t want to be. I won’t stay in something for the wrong reasons. I won’t make the same choices she did.

My daughter has shown me the kind of strength I never knew I had. She’s taught me what it means to fight, to stand tall, even when it feels impossible. I’ll keep fighting, for her and for myself, no matter who tries to bring me down.

What It Feels Like to Be Second Best

Tears streamed down my face, not out of anger, but from a deep well of sadness and disappointment. It feels like I’ve been nurturing seeds in soil meant for maize, not for the apple tree I hoped to grow.

Until today, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant to be second best. Summoning the courage to confront my emotions, I realize now that it’s not anger I feel, but a profound sadness in knowing I’m not enough for the one I love.

Have you ever loved someone so deeply that you envisioned your entire future with them, only for a single moment to shatter that illusion? One comment, one realization, and suddenly you know you were never truly their priority.

I’ve been wrestling with this feeling for a while, trying to make sense of why my mind kept signaling that something was off. For a deeper understanding, I recommend reading my previous post, where I pour out my heart in a love letter to the one I cherish.

In that letter, you’ll find how we’ve been clashing over family boundaries. I confessed feeling like my emotions must always take a backseat to his mother’s. I’m not trying to compete with her; our roles are fundamentally different, offering distinct forms of love that shouldn’t even be compared.

My struggle is with feeling second best. Today, I realized this stems from his hopes and dreams being deeply rooted in his family—not the one we’re trying to create, but the one between him, his mother, and his siblings.

I feel disheartened because I’ve placed the family I’m building on a pedestal, making it my top priority. Yet, I feel let down because my partner isn’t ready to build with me. He’s still deeply invested in his original family.

I wonder when he will be ready to build with me and our child. Will we be able to wait for that day? And if we do, what does that say about me? Do I love myself enough to demand more? If I settle for second place now, will I always be second? When will it end?

Navigating adulthood is a unique adventure; there’s no guidebook for it. You just have to keep trying to do what’s best for yourself and those you love. For now, I’ll focus on myself and building a life with my child because she and I deserve to be the priority.