What Happens When You Stop Begging to Belong

Note to Readers: As a special note, I will be re-writing this entire article soon but for now I leave as is in it’s imperfect state. I want to mention that for the first few sections, I understand the irony that will be shared within the last couple of sections but for now, I leave it because it shows the truth of how I felt and the blame that I laid before the healing began.

🔥 The Roots of the Unhealed Woman I Used to Be

(and the Awakening That Burned the Illusion Down)

For a long time, I carried a version of myself that wasn’t mine.
She was shaped by fear, by silence, by expectations that never belonged to me.
She was the girl who learned early that survival meant performance — and that being loved required becoming whatever someone else needed.

Where did that version come from?

Her roots stretch back to a place where I escaped abuse, only to be met with a different kind of neglect. Yes, someone opened a door for me when no one else would — and I’ll forever acknowledge that act. But opening a door is not the same as walking a wounded child through it.

I was taken out of the fire, but nobody checked to see if I was still burning.

No one asked how terrified I was of what would happen if I had to go back.
No one wondered how trauma gnawed at my insides while I pretended to be “fine.”
No one thought to get me therapy.
The assumption was simple:

“She’s out of the abuse now. That should fix it.”

But trauma doesn’t vanish because geography changes.
And fear doesn’t dissolve because someone else thinks it should.

So I learned to run — fast and blindly — into whatever felt like the next “normal step.”
Find love. Graduate. Get a job. Marry. Have children.
Do the things a “good girl” does.

Trauma doesn’t evaporate because someone thinks it should.
Pain doesn’t heal because someone believes it’s time for you to “move on.”
So I did what unhealed kids do — I ran straight into adulthood, straight into roles I wasn’t ready for, straight into relationships that mirrored the chaos I was raised in.

I built a life on rubble because no one ever taught me to clear the debris.

Only a few years later, when my life collapsed — this time through a manipulative marriage and the unraveling of everything I had tried to build — the people I had poured myself into chose the version of events that made their lives easier.

Not the true version and certainly not the version where I needed them.

I needed support — real support — but they listened to a manipulator rather than to the woman who had never touched a drug in her life, especially when she was breastfeeding.

When I stumbled, they assumed it was because I was broken, reckless, or ungrateful — never once considering that I had been standing alone on emotional landmines for years.

I became “the problem” simply because I dared to protect myself.

Even in grief — deep, soul-breaking grief — I was shamed for finding solace where someone else disapproved. I was mourning too, but my mourning was treated like an offense. My pain was an inconvenience. My choices were “wrong” because they didn’t fit the script others had written for me.

🔥 The Third Wound: The One That Broke Me Open

He was the closest thing I’d ever had to a father.
A man who saw pieces of me no one else bothered to look at.
A man who cared, who taught, who stood in a role no one else had ever taken for me.

And when he was dying?

I was there.
Every.
Single.
Fucking.
Day.

I was the one showing up.
I was the one doing the hard emotional labor.
I was the one balancing grief, kids, work, trauma, fear, and duty — while others stayed away, assuming he would recover “like he always did.”

I showed up even when I was exhausted.
Even when I was terrified.
Even when my own soul was cracking from the weight of everything I held.

And the ONE day — the ONE day — I was told I didn’t need to come?

That was the day he died.

The moment I allowed myself a breath…
The moment I allowed myself a drop of reprieve…
Life ripped him from this world.

And I had to absorb the emotional shrapnel alone because the ones who had each other had comfort, support, shared grief.

But I? I was shamed for seeking solace in someone my father-like figure loved and trusted. I was expected to hold their peace, while swallowing my own like it didn’t exist.

I was blamed for grieving “wrong” and was painted as someone making another mistake — even while my heart was splitting open.

I mourned him as deeply as anyone else — but my grief wasn’t allowed.
My loss didn’t matter.
My sorrow wasn’t “valid.”
Not to them.

I had become the designated black sheep — the emotional mule who was supposed to carry everyone but never crack under her own weight.

But here’s the truth they never wanted to see:

If a person is always the one holding everything together, no one ever asks how heavy it is.

🔥 And So… the Unhealed Woman Was Born

I was weak, I was flawed, and I made bad decisions. That doesn’t make me a bad person, that makes me just as human as anyone else in this life. But I didn’t learn until much later that this was ok.

Through repeated abandonment, I learned that my pain didn’t matter unless it was convenient for someone else.

They will swear they never abandoned me.
They’ll say it was “all in my head,” as if my empty phone, my unanswered messages,
and my silent nights somehow lied.

But I remember standing alone. I remember hoping for support that never came.
Not because I didn’t want to reach out — but because every time I tried,
I could already hear the interrogation waiting on the other end:

“Why didn’t you do it this way?”
“Why didn’t you handle it better?”
“Why didn’t you think?”

Back then, I didn’t know how to explain it.
But now I do:

I was too afraid of your judgment.
Too afraid of being wrong in your eyes.
Too afraid of never being perfect enough for you.

That fear wasn’t imaginary — it was trained into me.

I learned that love had conditions.
I learned that acceptance came only when I erased myself.
I learned that my job was to show up for everyone, even when no one showed up for me.

That belief kept me small.
Kept me silent.
Kept me unhealed.

---

🔥 The Return — Seen Through Clearer Eyes

When I came back, it wasn’t just because my life had fallen apart again — it was because I believed we needed each other.
I didn’t see myself as a burden, or an outsider, but as someone who was a part of something.
A family.
A home we both tended in our own ways.

Yes, the relationship I left had drained me, but I still walked away strong.
I was proud of myself for leaving what wasn’t good for me.
But I also needed somewhere safe to land — somewhere familiar, somewhere steady, somewhere I could be the mom I needed to be.

And she needed me too.
She had a roommate taking advantage of her, draining her, overwhelming her.
I stepped in because I thought we helped each other.
I thought that was the unspoken bond between us.

For twelve years, I lived in that house as someone who believed she genuinely belonged there.

My furniture filled rooms not because I was trying to take over,
but because I thought it was our shared space.
I believed I was part of the structure —
an imperfect, but devoted piece of a family puzzle I thought welcomed me.

In hindsight, I see now that I assumed a belonging they never fully gave.
I thought I was a part of their family because that’s how I loved them.
But love doesn’t automatically mean you’re loved back the same way.

So when I learned conversations were happening behind closed doors —
conversations about me taking up “too much space,”
about my presence being “overwhelming,”
about how the home wasn’t mine the way I believed it was —
it struck me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

What I saw as contributing, was actually intrusion.
What I saw as shared life, was actually a burden.
What I saw as mutual, was ONLY mine to carry.

And yes — that hurt, not because I was entitled to the space,
but because I genuinely thought I belonged.
I thought family meant shared rooms, shared burdens, shared life.

Instead, I learned the hard truth:

I was only part of the family in moments that were convenient for them.
Never in the moments that actually defined belonging.

When I was told it was time to leave — for their comfort, their finances, their future —
it was clear that my place in that home had always been conditional.
Temporary.
Accepted… but never fully embraced.

And the timing couldn’t have been worse.

I was in therapy for the first time, finally digging out the “not good enough” narrative that shaped my entire life.
They knew that.
They heard that.
And still — nothing.

No check-ins.
No help with moving.
No effort to understand.
No acknowledgment of the weight I had been carrying for everyone.

Just expectations.
Just assumptions about how I should have behaved for them.
Just blame for not performing correctly.

And then, the final contradiction:

I was told they were “excited” to have me back in the fold — that all they needed was for me to reach out.

This excited me so even though they asked me not to reach out, I did so anyway for I believed this is what they wanted.
I extended the hand that I was told they have been waiting for.

And the silence that came afterward said more than their words ever did.

So here I am now —
I am not going to be angry for being removed, about to build a life that will finally belong to me, and grieving a family that I thought I belonged to. A family that I created in my own heart, but not the one that existed in theirs.

The question that remains is simple:

Did they ever really want me, or do they want the version of me who performs for their comfort, performs for their emotions, and performs for the version of their own truths?

Because I’m not being that woman anymore.

🔥 The Birth of the 3 P’s — My Blueprint for a Life That Finally Belongs to Me

Everything I’ve lived, survived, carried, and unlearned has led to the moment where I finally said:

Enough.

Enough performing.
Enough apologizing.
Enough shrinking.
Enough contorting myself to fit the shapes other people wanted me to be.

And from that realization — from the ashes of everything that broke me and everything that woke me — the 3 P’s were born.

1. Perform

I spent my entire life performing for other people’s expectations.
I learned early that if I didn’t dance just right, love would be withheld.
If I didn’t act correctly, I’d be judged.
If I didn’t speak perfectly, I’d be punished.

So I learned to anticipate needs before they were spoken.
I learned to manage emotions that weren’t mine.
I learned to carry relationships I didn’t feel safe in.

But now?
I no longer perform.
Not for acceptance.
Not for peace.
Not for the illusion of belonging.

If I perform now, it is only for myself — as an art form, as joy, as self-expression — not as a survival instinct.

2. Perfect

For decades, I believed perfection was the price of love.
I believed mistakes were sins, flaws were failures, and being human meant being “less than.”
I chased flawless execution in relationships, motherhood, work, communication — all while breaking inside.

Now I know the truth:

Perfection is a prison.
Imperfection is freedom.

I am fallible.
I am learning.
I am growing every day.
And I love myself more deeply now that I’m done trying to be anyone’s flawless version of me.

3. Please

Perhaps the deepest wound of all was learning that pleasing others was my purpose.
I learned to soothe everyone else’s discomfort while swallowing my own.
I learned to prioritize their happiness while burying mine.
I learned that saying “no” was dangerous, and saying “yes” was expected.

Now?

I am no longer here to please.
Not my family.
Not my past.
Not the ghosts of old expectations.

It is not my job — nor anyone’s — to perform perfection to make another human comfortable.

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🔥 The Philosophy That Saved My Life

None of us were given a manual for how to be alive.
(And no, a man-made book about how to perform for a man-made God does not count.)

We are all navigating life with the knowledge we gained from our own experiences —
our pain, our trauma, our joy, our failures, our rebirths.

And if life brought trauma?

Then healing becomes our responsibility —
not for anyone else’s comfort,
but for our own liberation.

Healing is the path we walk toward ourselves when the world has taken us in every other direction.

And on that path, sometimes we meet people whose rhythm matches our own.
Not perfectly — perfection is gone from my vocabulary —
but closely enough that the connection feels real.

People who invite you into their circle without requirement or condition.
People who don’t need you to be a character to be worthy.
People who don’t tell you your truth is “wrong” just because it’s inconvenient.
People who love you simply for existing in their orbit.

I’ve found those people.
They didn’t demand performance.
They didn’t expect perfection.
They didn’t require me to please them to earn a place.

They opened their arms and said,
“Come as you are. Stay as long as you want.”

And that — THAT — is what taught me the final truth:

**My truth is not a weapon.

My truth is not a burden.
My truth is not an attack.
My truth is my medicine.
My healer.
My liberation.**

The 3 P’s were born from my pain,
but they are the boundary that protects my future.

They are the promise I make to myself every day:

I will not perform.
I will not perfect.
I will not please.
I will simply be —
and the ones meant for me will love me in that truth.

🔥 The Imperfect Parts of Healing — Where Old Patterns Still Whisper

Here’s a truth most people don’t like to admit:

Healing doesn’t erase the old version of you.
It just teaches you how to stop letting her drive.

There is still someone in my life — a piece of my family I get to see only in small doses.
And every time I’m in her presence, something familiar happens:

The old version of me resurfaces.
Not because I want her back,
not because she’s stronger,
but because she is practiced.

She is muscle memory.
She is survival instinct.
She is the version of me who once believed love could only be earned —
and she automatically tries to earn it.

She wants to be seen.
She wants to be accepted.
She wants to be chosen.
She wants the impossible:
to finally receive the love she spent decades performing for.

And when she rises, I feel it.

That subtle shift.
That tightening in my chest.
That old ache that says, “Maybe if you’re good enough this time…”

And for a moment — just a moment — I slip back into the shape I learned as a child.

Not because I’m failing.
But because patterns don’t disappear — they get recognized.
And recognition is the beginning of mastery.

This is the part of healing nobody tells you about:

You will slip.
You will regress.
You will crave old validation.
You will feel the gravity of old roles tug at your ankles.

And when you do?

It does not mean you are broken.
It means you are awake.

Because the moment you notice the pattern —
the moment you see the old version trying to step forward —
you also gain the chance to stop her.

To breathe.
To choose differently.
To remind yourself:

“I don’t perform for love anymore.”

I am still in this process.
I am still catching myself in old roles.
I am still unlearning the reflex to shrink, shape-shift, and prove myself.
And that does not make me weak.

It makes me human.

And more importantly,
it makes me someone who refuses to pretend healing is a straight line.

Healing is messy.
Healing is repetitive.
Healing is clumsy.
Healing is imperfect.

And imperfection is not failure.

Imperfection is the proof that I’m doing the work.
Imperfection is the bridge between old identity and new truth.
Imperfection is the place where my transformation becomes real.

So to anyone who sees themselves in my story —
to anyone who finds the “old self” rising at the wrong moments —
here is your permission:

Fail.
Notice.
Try again.
Repeat.

This is how we heal.
This is how we evolve.
This is how we become the version of ourselves we were always meant to be.

One imperfect moment at a time.

🔥 The Final Truth — I Release Expectations, and I Release Them

As I close this chapter, there’s one truth I finally understand with crystal clarity:

I should never have expected them to perform for me.

Not because I didn’t deserve love.
Not because I wasn’t worthy of effort.
But because expecting others to behave in ways they were never capable of only repeated the cycle that broke me.

Their actions — and just as painfully, their silence — fed the belief that I wasn’t enough.
That something was wrong with me.
That I had failed some invisible test.

But now I see the truth:

Their choices were not reflections of my worth.
They were reflections of their limits.

If they ever choose to own their actions?
If they ever take accountability for the ways they contributed to my hurt?
If they ever face their own patterns?

Then so be it.

But I no longer need it.
I no longer chase closure in the mouths of people who never offered it.
I no longer hold my breath waiting for apologies that will never come.

My healing is not dependent on their awakening.
My peace is not tied to their recognition.
My worth is not attached to their perspective.

My healing is for me.
Always was.
Always will be.

I reached out.
I tried.
I showed up one last time with an open hand and an open heart.

And I can be proud of that.

If they never respond, if they never speak my name again, if they erase me from their world — then I will grieve.
I will mourn the family I hoped for, the belonging I imagined, the future I tried to build.

But I will not carry shame for loving deeply.
And I will not carry guilt for letting go.

I will continue to hope good things for them —
healing, happiness, growth, softness, love.
Not because they earned my grace,
but because owning bitterness keeps me chained to a life that isn’t mine anymore.

None of what they do or don’t do belongs to me.
None of their healing is mine to judge.
And none of my healing is theirs to critique.

My life is mine.
My path is mine.
My truth is mine.
And the woman I am becoming is finally mine, too.

I share this life now with a man who meets me — truly meets me — halfway.
Not performing.
Not pleasing.
Not perfecting.
Just showing up with honesty, effort, and heart.

And I love him for that.

He is my home now —
but not a home I disappear into.
Not a home I lose myself in.
Not a home that consumes me.

He is the partner who walks beside me,
not the world I vanish inside of.

This is my ending.
And it is my beginning.

This is the chapter where I stop asking for a seat at the wrong table
and start building a life where I finally belong to myself.