Loneliness

For most of my life, criticism has felt more natural to me than comfort. It’s felt like an automatic reaction rather than something thought out. Immediate. Intense. Familiar.

My inner critic attacks my every thought, my every word, my every move. I’ve followed this pattern of negativity and self-hatred for as long as I can remember.

I think it stems from never feeling comfortable in my own skin. I grew up thinking there was something wrong with me because I felt so different from my peers. It felt like I didn’t belong. Like I never quite fit into the picture. And that feeling of loneliness made me ashamed of myself.

I judged myself for being too sensitive, too quiet, too distant. From the beginning, I made myself invisible by choice because I thought I wasn’t likeable or acceptable for my personality.

When I’m in a group socializing, I feel extremely awkward. Like I’m standing there incessantly rubbing my sweaty palms together, my facial expressions can often indicate that I’m unwell, and I have trouble speaking at all. I never know when to jump into conversation because I’m mentally preparing for what to say, how to say it, and how to act while doing so. And then, everything faulters. I end up staying quiet the whole time, just consciously in my thoughts, hating myself for not being “normal.” Why do I have to constantly put myself down when I do anything? It’s a question that’s boggled my mind for years.

I believed I was dull, boring, and rather plain. I felt like I just wasn’t good at anything—whether it was a hobby like art or making new friends. I would retreat inward and treat myself cruelly because of it.

There are so many times that great opportunities passed me by because of the intense negativity towards myself. I’d psych myself out of these opportunities telling myself that I’m not good enough, smart enough, or capable enough to handle something bigger for me. There were a couple of moments that I had interviews for dream jobs. One of them being a career in hospitality public relations.

I’ve always had a passion for gastronomy and tourism, and it was a job I really wanted to vie for. After hours, heck days, of mentally trying to prepare, I’d put myself down with those thoughts. I showed up to the interview (gave myself a pat on the back for at least walking in) and got through each question. But when I answered, my voice shook, my demeanor was unsteady, and my mind drifted, automatically criticizing my every word. Afterward, I immediately started crying and yelling at myself for being so awkward and so obviously uncomfortable.

There are times when I shrink myself so small that I literally believe every negative thought about me. I’ll sit there dwelling in certain scenarios from the past or the present and make myself out to be the enemy regardless of the situation.

What’s been difficult to realize is how unfamiliar gentleness feels to me now. It’s not because I don’t need it, but because criticism became the language I learned to speak to myself in.

Comfort can feel foreign sometimes. Even uncomfortable. There are moments where I try to reassure myself and immediately feel resistance, like my mind doesn’t fully believe I deserve kindness.

In most situations I’m generally uncomfortable. Like if someone compliments me, I’ll try my best to steer away from the compliment and continue the conversation. I shy away. I’ve never known how to receive them well because I genuinely don’t believe what someone is telling me because deep down I feel unworthy. And then I realize just how harsh my inner critic is. It won’t even let me accept a simple compliment. I’m noticing just how harsh my self-talk sounds out loud. I practically cringe at the thought.

I’m realizing that when you spend years tearing yourself apart internally, compassion doesn’t come naturally overnight. It has to be practiced repeatedly.

I’m trying to unlearn the idea that I need to earn kindness from myself.

For so long, I believed comfort came from rest after constant productivity. But the truth is, I’ve spent years withholding compassion from myself during the moments when I needed it most.

I’m noticing how quickly my mind moves toward blame when something goes wrong. How instinctively I criticize myself for being emotional, overwhelmed, anxious, or withdrawn. It happens in an instant and I barely realize I’m doing it.

It feels unnatural for me to experience kindness towards myself. Because when criticism has been your default for years, compassion feels almost suspicious.

But I don’t want my inner voice to keep sounding like someone I’m afraid of. I want to learn how to speak to myself with softness instead of shame. With understanding instead of punishment.

I’m still unsure how to go about it, but I know that with practice, patience, and learning to really love myself, I’ll get there.

“Talk to yourself like someone you love.” — Brené Brown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Depression #ADHD #Anxiety #GeneralizedAnxietyDisorder #Autism #MightyTogether

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my life—past events, current situations, and future plans—and it’s made me question if I’m truly moving forward or just existing in a state of stagnation. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be present in your own life versus simply going through the motions, and whether I’ve been living with intention or just functioning out of habit.

Most of my life I’ve operated on autopilot. It feels like waking up and doing the same thing every single day without even thinking about it. It’s become routine, ordinary, and repetitive. I’m merely just functioning, not truly living. And that’s something that I want to change.

I’ve lived my life by my own set of rules. I always have. Personally, I never like to be told what to do, when to do it, or how to do it. Generally, I like to figure things out on my own without any help. I can be stubborn that way.

Embracing Life Lessons: A Letter to My 100-Year-Old Self

But sometimes, I feel like I need a little guidance, a sense of direction because so far, my rules haven’t helped me achieve the things I want out of life.

I feel like my life is passing me by. I’ve become so functional, so operational, that I forget there’s a whole other life to live. I’ve become somewhat of a hermit. I rarely leave my house unless I have to. But that’s a very lonely space.

More often than not, it’s hard not to compare yourself to others when you notice how full their lives look. Those impressions you get through personally knowing someone or seeing it via social media. Social media is a dangerous rabbit hole to go down if you’re looking to uplift yourself. It just isn’t going to happen.

But right now, I just feel like my life isn’t going anywhere. I feel like I’m just existing. There’s such an emptiness there.

For the past few years, I would say that I’ve been in a mental fog. A dissociative state if you will. I’ve felt out of touch with my emotions in the sense that they don’t hit me fully until later on, when I least expect it.

I want a life where I don’t just feel functional. I want a life that I can fully and wholly be a part of. I’m done sitting back and watch time go by. I’ve learned just how precious time can be because right now it feels like I suddenly woke up after years of hibernation.

Years flew by in a flash. All I know is that I was twenty years old yesterday, but today, let’s just say a lot of time has passed since. I feel old without being old. I feel like I missed out on so many opportunities and experiences because I was in such a state of disconnection for so long.

I’m starting to pay more attention to this and trying to find ways to help myself get out of this bubble I’ve been in. I need change, and I need it now. That’s truthfully how I feel. So, I’m beginning to take more action instead of staying still.

It’s strange to realize how long you can be functioning without really being present in your own life. And what’s sitting with me most is not just that it’s been happening, but that I didn’t fully notice how far I had drifted until now. I don’t know what comes next, but I do know I don’t want to keep existing in a way where I feel this far away from myself.

When was the last time you felt truly present in your own life—not just functioning through it?

“Lost time is never found again.” — Benjamin Franklin

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Autism #Depression #Anxiety #MightyTogether

Personally, I had a rough week. It was filled with unexpected stressors, negative thought patterns, and low energy with minimal movement. I'm not going to lie, I've felt rather lonely during this time, but a friend reached out over the weekend and made me feel a little better just knowing that someone wanted my company given that i was so down the past few days. It cheered me up a bit.

Did you have any moments that brought you joy? Let me know!

#MightyTogether #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Depression #ADHD #AutismSpectrum #Anxiety

How lucky am I to have found that letter.

It was tucked away in a small box of my mom’s things in my grandparents’ closet. Neatly folded, quietly waiting. I found it 24 years after she died by suicide. It was the last entry in a journal I had somehow overlooked, written the month she passed in 1994.

For most of my life, I tried to understand my mom through other people’s memories. I pieced her together through stories, trying to make sense of how much she loved me…and still asking the question that never really left: why?

Because the truth is…I don’t have many memories of my own.

She died when I was just 2 and a half years old. It was 1994, before smartphones, before cameras were always within reach. Every year, I find myself cycling through the same four pictures I have of the two of us. Just four. That’s all I have. Four small snapshots to hold onto, to study, to try and feel close to her in some way.

So much of who she was has lived in imagination, in stories, in pieces.

The day I found the letter would have been her 47th birthday. The next day was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day.

That doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me.

In the letter, she wrote: “I just hope it’s at a time when you’re able to understand me and most of all forgive me.”

For a long time, I wasn’t ready.

Grief is complicated like that. It doesn’t move in a straight line. It lingers, it resurfaces, it changes shape over time. I carried confusion, anger, sadness—and a kind of emptiness that comes from missing someone you never really got the chance to know.

I also carried my own struggles. Depression. Periods of suicidal ideation. And in 2014, I had a suicide attempt.

At the time, I didn’t understand the weight of what I had been carrying since childhood. I later learned through research from Johns Hopkins that children who lose a parent to suicide are up to three times more likely to die by suicide themselves.

That statistic stopped me.

Because suddenly, my story had context.

But it didn’t have to be my ending.

Finding support through the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention helped me in ways I didn’t even have words for at first. It connected me with people who understood this kind of loss without explanation. It helped me make sense of feelings I had buried for years. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That healing, even after something like this, is possible.

Somewhere along that path, I found my way to her.

Or maybe… I finally found my way to understanding her.

When I read the letter, something shifted. I didn’t just see what I had lost—I saw what she had been carrying. I saw her loneliness. I saw her pain. And I saw how deeply she loved me, even in the middle of it all.

For the first time, I felt like I understood.

Mom, after 32 years, I forgive you.

Not because it didn’t hurt. Not because it didn’t change everything. But because I can finally see you more clearly now. And in that understanding, I found a kind of peace I didn’t think was possible.

I love you. I always have. I always will.

I’ll leave you, the reader, with this:

They say you die twice. Once when you stop breathing, and the second, a bit later on, when somebody mentions your name for the last time.

I will never stop saying your name, Mom.

I will never stop sharing your story.

#SuicidePrevention #survivorofsuicideloss #AFSP #MentalHealth #Veteran #Grief #Suicide #MothersDay