Something I find insanely attractive is certainty. When someone meets me and almost instantly knows what they feel about me, it shakes me to my core. If they look at me and say, you’re the one, I’m sold.

I know it might sound a lot like love bombing. Maybe it even is. But for me, it speaks to something deeper. It feels magnetic when someone moves toward me with clear intention, with no hesitation, with a sense of exactly where they want to go with me.

That kind of certainty takes a person who knows without question what they want. And maybe that is why I am drawn to it, because it is the decisiveness I often lack in myself.

What I want most is to feel sane again. Lately, I feel like I’m unraveling. My emotions run wild, and I can’t seem to regulate them the way I used to. Anxiety creeps in often, disrupting my sleep, keeping me tangled in loops of overthinking.

And I know it isn’t just in my head. Living with PCOS alongside these mental health struggles makes it all the more difficult to manage. Growing older has also changed the way I handle myself. I notice I give up more easily, I feel hopeless sooner, and I tire faster.

Anger, too, is something I desperately want to control. It sits there, ready to rise, even when I don’t want it to.

I know I am carrying wounds that keep me bound in ways I don’t fully understand.

Don’t you just hate it when the life you once dreamed of turns into the very thing that breaks you? The vision you held so tightly, bright, whole, hopeful, ends up leaving scars you never asked for. It bends you, bruises you, molds you into someone you barely recognize. Someone you can’t quite make peace with.

The chaos doesn’t scream; it smolders. Quietly, relentlessly, until the insides of who you were turn to ash. Until the soul feels hollow.

I often find myself wishing it had turned out differently. That the battles I fought didn’t have to leave me scarred. That the person I used to be didn’t have to die in the process. But I also know this: who I became was born out of necessity. She emerged in the middle of survival, grasping for ground, fighting for air.

The thing about change is, it is never sudden. It creeps in quietly, almost invisible at first, a habit here, a compromise there. And before you realize it, you have shed an entire version of yourself. The mirror reflects someone else entirely.

Anger has carved out its own little corner inside me. It waits, patient and sharp, ready to rise with every word left unspoken, every need left unmet.

And yet, all of this has forced me inward. To pause. To reflect.

Because pain reshapes you in unimaginable ways. It strips you down. It makes you weaker, less resilient, slower to rise after every fall. And the worst part is you do not even notice the unraveling until you are knee-deep in it. Until the tiredness becomes permanent, until the exhaustion sits with you like an unwanted shadow.

Being in love with you was the easy part. But choosing myself? That was the hard.

It took me months of unlearning, rewiring, and breaking old patterns before I could finally stand up for myself.

No, I don’t adore the marks I carry.
They’re not symbols of strength to me—
just remnants of a silence that screamed too loud.

Every time my eyes meet them,
a quiet ache stirs beneath the surface,
a memory I never invited, returning unannounced.

They were fading once, nearly gone.
But something pulled them back into the light,
and now they speak louder than I do.

I hate how visible my quiet battles have become,
how pain sometimes etches itself where the world can see.
But I don’t linger too long in that thought.

I simply breathe,
and move through the days with the weight of it all,
learning to carry what cannot be erased.

It means nothing to me if you fall in love with me at your lowest when you treated me like shit at your best.

How can I forgive you when my scars haven’t forgiven you?

I’ve been feeling so drained lately. Days blur into hours, and I lie in bed watching the world unfold through a screen, completely disconnected from everything outside my door.

I know it’s depression. It’s mostly functional, but these days, it’s not. It’s familiar—it never really leaves. I’ve lived with it long enough. But something about this season feels different. I feel stuck, distant, indifferent. I don’t know why, and honestly, I don’t have the energy to figure it out. I just keep telling myself it’ll pass. One day I’ll wake up, go for a run, return to the gym, eat better, and slowly start feeling like myself again.

Until then, I’m learning to be gentle with myself. To forgive the unrealistic expectations I keep setting, even when my mind isn’t in the right space. To stop being so hard on myself for needing rest. It may look like laziness or a lack of purpose, but this might be the most I can manage right now. And that has to be enough.

Maybe I’m processing more than I realize. Maybe this quiet is the pause I didn’t know I needed after months of pushing through. Whatever it is, I’m choosing patience. I’m choosing softness. I’m choosing to love myself through it all.

Because if I don’t, who will?

There’s a version of love we don’t talk about enough — the kind that lives on after trust has been broken, the kind that stays even when the heart has been bruised more than once.

It’s a strange, conflicted place to be — still here, but not really whole. Wanting to try, but afraid of what trying might cost.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how easily I get angry. Not over the big things — but over the small, almost invisible ones. Things that maybe wouldn’t matter if my heart didn’t already feel like it was standing on cracked ground.

The truth is, my anger isn’t really about him.
It’s about fear.
Fear that the ground will crack again.
Fear that if I trust, I’ll end up back in the same lonely place, wondering why I stayed.
Fear that trying again means betraying myself, that forgiveness might cost me more than it heals.
Fear that maybe love isn’t enough if trust can’t find its way back.

No one tells you how heavy it is to carry love and fear at the same time.
No one teaches you how to speak gently when you’re scared.
No one prepares you for how easy it is to hurt someone when you’re only trying to protect yourself.