unglitchingme

a soft place for the parts of me that rewired themselves to survive. I write about healing, identity, emotions, and all the quiet work no one sees.

[unglitchingme]

listen, i don't care about having friends or having enemies but you will respect me.

[unglitchingme]

I used to accept crumbs without complaint, not because I had a taste for them, but because I was taught to be grateful for whatever I received.

Now, it seems they have come to believe that crumbs are my preference, rather than the full loaf.

[unglitchingme]

I’m realizing I was praised for things that had nothing to do with who I was.

Just how well I adjusted.

How quiet I stayed.

How much I gave up to belong.

[unglitchingme]

I’ve been researching identity formation.

But in between the lines, I’m also researching myself.

And some days, it feels like I’m writing a eulogy for all the versions of me I had to become just to be loved.

[unglitchingme]

what if i was never given the space to become?

just assigned roles, handed labels, shaped by survival.

and now that i finally have the space.

i’m terrified of what i’ll find in the silence.

[unglitchingme]

identity crises don’t always look loud.

sometimes they look like standing in front of your closet, staring at clothes that don’t feel like you.

like deleting posts that once felt true.

like hearing someone call your name and feeling a strange ache in your chest.

[unglitchingme]

the first time he asked me how i was.

i said “fine” like i always do.

but he didn’t move on.

he didn’t fill the space with small talk.

he just… waited.

and that wait told me everything.

it said, “you don’t have to perform here.”

it said, “i see through that word, and i’m not leaving.”

that pause made something in me soften.

not because i was ready to open up.

but because, for the first time in a long time,

someone actually made room for the truth.

[unglitchingme]

there’s a version of me i never became

because i was too busy surviving.

*newsflash!!! I am still busy surviving*

[unglitchingme]

*screaming out my lungs*

i don’t want closure.

i want someone to say: “you weren’t crazy. it really did happen that way.”

[unglitchingme]

i used to think i was easygoing.

i was just afraid if i asked for too much, they’d leave.

[unglitchingme]

she still lives in me. the little girl who tried so hard to be enough.

she was so small.

and she carried so much.

always trying to read the room.

always trying to be good.

trying not to ask for too much.

trying to be liked.

trying to disappear just enough to avoid being a burden.

and she still shows up sometimes.

in the way i apologize too quickly.

in the way i second-guess my joy.

in the way i expect love to be taken away the moment i stop being perfect.

she didn’t need to be fixed.

she needed to be held.

and i’m learning how to do that now.

[unglitchingme]

when no one soothed you as a child, you grow up believing that comfort is something you have to deserve.

[unglitchingme]

i was taught that being emotional made me weak.

so i toughened up.

bit my tongue.

sucked it in.

pushed it down.

i stopped crying when i needed to cry.

i stopped asking when i needed support.

i wore strength like a shield

because no one made space for softness.

but the damage was internal.

not dramatic… just constant.

and now softness feels like a risk.

vulnerability feels like exposure.

i’m not emotionally numb.

i’m emotionally armored.

and that’s a wound, not a personality trait.

[unglitchingme]

i always made sure other people were okay. no one asked if i was.

i was the one who held space.

who stayed calm.

who made sure no one felt left out, or awkward, or uncomfortable.

it became second nature,

not because i was emotionally wise,

but because i knew what it felt like to be uncared for.

and that pattern stuck.

even now, i check in before i speak up.

make sure you’re okay before i name that i’m not.

and sometimes i resent it.

not because i don’t want to care.

but because i don’t know what it feels like to be cared for in return.

[unglitchingme]

no one protected me from the world. so i tried to become the world.

i became everything.

the fixer.

the friend.

the one who understood, who softened, who stayed.

i held more than a child ever should.

and it made me proud for a while.

until i realized:

no one ever came to hold me.

i made myself necessary because i thought that’s what made me lovable.

but now i’m exhausted.

and i want to be held for nothing.

for no reason.

just because i exist.

and maybe that’s the beginning of healing:

realizing i don’t have to be everything

to be worthy of anything.

[unglitchingme]

“what i’d say if she could finally hear me.”

Mother!!!

you hurt me.

and not just in the ways you probably expect.

not in the big dramatic ways.

but in the small, daily ways that added up until i no longer trusted myself.

you told me i was too sensitive.

too stubborn.

too nasty.

too much and somehow not enough at the same time.

you raised your voice and called it discipline.

you threw harsh words and called it care.

you ignored my tears and called it strength.

you criticized me and called it love.

and maybe that’s what love looked like to you.

maybe you were just repeating what was done to you.

i believe that.

but that doesn’t mean it didn’t break me.

i needed a mother who made space for my feelings.

not one who made me afraid of them.

i needed comfort, not control.

curiosity, not correction.

presence, not performance.

i needed you to protect my softness.

not train it out of me.

i’m not saying this to blame you.

i’m saying this because silence didn’t save me.

i need to speak this.

even if it’s too late.

even if you never change.

even if you never understand.

i’m saying it because the version of me who still flinches at love deserves a voice.

you couldn’t give me what i needed.

and that’s a grief i carry.

but i’m learning to give it to myself now.

slowly. quietly.

without your permission.

and maybe the most loving thing i can do… for both of us…

is to stop waiting for you to become the mother i needed

and become her for myself.

[unglitchingme]

“Mother, i don’t hate you. i just can’t heal while pretending it didn’t happen.”

i tried to protect you from this truth.

made excuses for you.

rationalized every sting, every silence, every unmet need.

but the more i protect you,

the more i abandon me.

i don’t want to hate you.

i want to be free.

and that means telling the truth,

even if it breaks your version of the story.

you can hold your pain.

but i’m allowed to hold mine too.