self

I’ve always walked around quietly with my head down. Eyes focused on anything but what’s right in front of me. I felt alone in a room full of people, like I had some sort of invisibility powers that I didn’t ask for.

My whole life, I felt like something was wrong with me. I thought that my quiet nature, my need for space, and the way I felt everything so intensely were flaws I had to fix. I did my best to blend in and act “normal,” but a part of me felt so empty inside—like a piece of my soul was missing.

I learned to mask my real thoughts and feelings. I hid the truest parts of me that are actually beautiful. I didn’t realize it then, because all I could see were flaws. Now I know they weren’t. Since then, I’ve started to embrace myself more and live life authentically, without pretending every day to be someone I’m not.

Being Quiet

Being a quiet person has always felt like a trap—an inescapable silence that lingers and tells me to stay still, stay focused, stay compliant. I always thought that because I came off as quiet, I had to live up to that expectation. If I ever tried to be more extroverted, it felt unnatural. It made me feel foolish, like I was performing instead of being.

I remember being at a party with close friends. I was having fun engaging with those familiar to me, but when it came time to meet someone new, I froze. I didn’t have words. Nothing came to mind other than a short hello. After that, I immediately stepped outside to be alone, and eventually opted to leave because I felt so uncomfortable.

Being quiet happens in most social settings. My friends are used to it by now, but with acquaintances it takes a lot longer for my words to come out. I just tend to stay isolated and quiet, in my head rummaging through my thoughts of how awkward I am.

But being quiet is also where I’m comfortable. I don’t always feel the need to talk. I enjoy listening and engaging in more subtle ways. I’m not the loud person in the room demanding attention—I’m the one sitting in the corner—not because I have to, but because I want to. That’s where my comfort lies.

I always wished I would grow out of being a quiet person. I thought someday I would. But I’ve realized it’s simply who I authentically am. I’m someone who loves the sound of silence because it gives me space to breathe and just be myself. I thrive in solitude and come out the other end feeling born anew. Constant chatter drains me. My social battery dies out faster than the Energizer Bunny can beat his own drum.

It’s taken me a very long time to see that my quietness isn’t a flaw. For so long, it put me in a place of uncertainty. Will I make connections if I stay this quiet? Should I push myself to be more extroverted just to form them? Do I deny my true self to appear more vigorous—more what society labels as “normal”?

But being quiet has allowed me to notice things others usually miss, to hear what isn’t said, to connect in ways that go beyond words. My quiet isn’t a flaw. It’s a lens that colors the way I experience the world.

Needing Alone Time

Taking time alone for myself is essential. I don’t just want it—I need it to get through each day. I used to think that retreating meant I was being selfish, or worse, antisocial. So I pushed myself in social situations and pretended to be fine when I really wasn’t.

The thing is, I want to be involved. I want to be included. I have a fear of missing out, if you will, and genuinely want to be part of things. A lot of the time I’d forgo my own feelings of being drained and exhausted and push myself through moments of burnout just to be present.

I’m realizing now that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to put limits on things that make you feel like you’re a second choice—or leave you feeling depleted. Now, if I miss out on something, I know it was because I was honoring my mind and body and chose rest instead of burnout.

Needing alone time is how I process my emotions, reset my energy, and reconnect with myself. Without it, I feel frayed, anxious, and untethered. Alone time isn’t a flaw. It’s a way to nurture my mind and heart so I can be fully present when I do choose to show up.

Feeling Deeply

I feel every emotion so intensely—joy, sadness, fear, love—and for a long time, it felt like a curse. My sensitivity always felt like a flaw because it made my emotions visible, vulnerable, and physically expressive.

If I’m sensitive about something, whether big or small, I automatically react emotionally. It’s innate. It’s hard to take time to absorb my feelings without physically expressing them. I recently had an experience where my rejection sensitivity came in intensely. I was chatting with a friend, and we had plans to meet up and hang out. But when I texted him throughout the day, I never heard a response back. Later on, I saw them hanging out with a close group of friends I know. I felt left out, unwanted, unappreciated, and that led to anger and rage. My feelings were hurt so much. I feel absolutely everything because I care so much.

I’m the true definition of an empath. When someone feels something deeply, I feel it with them. I feel their emotions as if they’re my own. My mood is also dependent on others around me. I feed off of how others are emotionally feeling, and I can’t help but take all of that in as well.

But the truth is, feeling deeply is a gift. It’s taken me a long time realize that though. My sensitivity allows me to create, to experience life in rich, vivid colors. It isn’t a flaw, it’s rather a bridge that connects how I care, and how I live fully in a world that feels overwhelming.

Taking Longer

My whole life I’ve been out of breath—running, chasing, trying to keep up with others. I felt like taking too much time meant that I was slow, that I lacked the motivation others seemed to have with ease. I thought that taking longer to do something meant that I lacked patience, willpower, and strength. Life was passing me by, and I was somehow failing at it.

Moving slower used to give me such anxiety. I always thought that I was taking too long to do just one simple ordinary task, and I felt like I was holding everybody else up. It made me rush through life without pausing to appreciate it or even appreciate my efforts. There have been situations, like at work, where I needed to take extra time to get my work done because my brain processes auditory instructions differently than visual. I need visuals to understand what I’m being asked to do, and taking extra time allows me to complete my work correctly.

But now, I take my time without feeling guilty or shameful. I know that it’s just my mind and body’s way of telling me that it takes time to process things, and that’s okay.

I’ve learned that taking my time isn’t a weakness. It’s mindfulness, carefulness, and respect for myself and my limits. It allows me to notice details, make intentional choices, and savor life rather than just survive it.

Other Things I Thought Were Flaws

Overthinking

Saying no

Crying easily

Being highly sensitive to energy or environment

There are times where I still view these as flaws, but that’s only because it’s been a struggle to finally accept myself as I am. With late diagnoses, there’s a sense of grief over the person you thought you were compared to person you truly are.

For me, it was both a relief and a letdown. A letdown in the sense that I spent so much of my life not fully understanding who I was, where I was going, what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do with my life. I felt like I had to choose who I wanted to be, instead of just simply being. But now, I have a newfound view and sense of freedom that’s been allowing me to live my life the way that I see fit without pressure or guilt. I’m doing me, and for the first time, I’m happy about that.

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Anxiety #Depression #self

I’m rarely silent because I have nothing to say. I’m silent because too much is happening all at once. When emotions hits me, it hits me straight in the chest. It tightens, feels heavy, and buzzes with nerves. People ask, “What’s wrong?” and I stare back, wishing I could hand them the feeling itself because I don’t even understand it yet.

I’ve learned that my emotions move much faster than my words do. Or maybe my words move slower because I need time to catch up to the truth.

The Moment I Go Quiet

I know the exact moment when I go quiet. It could be over the smallest thing, like someone rolling their eyes in a way that feels judgmental. Or the way someone’s voice changes mid-conversation, suddenly making me feel personally targeted, as though it was my fault.

My body reacts before my mind even has a chance to interpret the actual meaning or cause. I feel the blood rush to my face, pressure behind my eyes, and the all-too-familiar urge to retreat further inward.

This is what shutting down looks like for me. I withdraw and grow distant because my mind is stuck in a loop. What did I miss? What did I say wrong? Did I misunderstand? My nervous system is in overdrive, incessantly searching for safety, meaning, and reassurance. And when I’m in that state of mind, asking me to explain how I feel feels like asking me to speak underwater.

I’ve Learned Not to Trust My First Words

There are times when I force myself to talk anyway. But the problem with that is I’m not fully present. I’m off somewhere in my mind, replaying everything that made me go silent in the first place. My attention isn’t even focused on the conversation at hand.

It’s frustrating because I want to be engaged and have a good time, but my mind holds me back in fear and anxiety. In those moments, it feels like I have no choice but to retreat into silence.

In that state, I answer too quickly. I minimize my feelings to seem easier. I say, “I’m fine,” when I’m not, because the phrase “I don’t know yet” once felt unacceptable. And later, when I’m alone, the real feelings kick into high gear, becoming heavier and clearer than before.

Processing Looks Like Stillness

Processing, for me, happens slowly. It looks like sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing, letting the weight in my chest rise and fall until it softens. It looks like pacing around the house because my body needs movement even when my mind feels stuck, grabbing small bites of food because sitting still long enough for a full meal feels impossible. And it looks like crying in the shower so no one can hear me, letting the water run down my body along with my tears.

Sometimes it looks like opening my notebook and writing a sentence, crossing it out, and trying again. And again. Letting the wrong words fall away until one finally feels honest. Until something clicks and I can breathe a little easier, knowing I’ve found the shape of what I’m actually feeling.

I’m not avoiding the conversation. I’m preparing for it. I’ve given myself the space I need to come back grounded, instead of flooded. I need my body to settle before my voice can, before I can speak from truth instead of overwhelm.

When Silence Was Misunderstood

I feel like my silence has been detrimental to relationships. Some of the hardest moments in my relationships came when my need for time was taken personally.

It happened when space was seen as punishment. When pauses were treated like rejection. When I was pressured to speak before I understood myself.

That pressure didn’t bring me closer. It made me retreat even further. My mind and body don’t open under demand. They open under patience, gentleness, and knowing that I’ll be met with care when I return.

The Difference Safety Makes

With emotional safety, everything changes. When someone says, “Take your time. I’m here when you’re ready,” my body’s tension eases a bit. My thoughts slow down, and the fog I’d been in begins to lift. Words find me naturally instead of being dragged out of me.

I don’t disappear. I come back to myself clearer, more honest, and less guarded. That sense of safety gives my nervous system a chance to breathe again.

This Is Me Trying to Love Well

I’ve learned that needing time before I explain myself is an expression of how I love responsibly. It’s how I make sure my words are true instead of reactive. It’s how I protect the connection instead of damaging it in a moment of overwhelm. And It’s how I honor both my feelings and the person in front of me.

This has taken me a very long time to reach, but I’m finally able to say this without apology: “I need some time to process before I can explain how I feel.”

I’ll Come Back With Words That Matter

I may go quiet for a while. But I always come back.

And when I do, it’s with clarity, softness, and words that sound like me. I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time. And when the words arrive, they arrive whole—because I waited long enough to let them become true.

When you feel overwhelmed, how do you give yourself space to process before responding?

“I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time—and when the words arrive, they arrive whole.”

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Anxiety #self

I always feel like I overreact. Especially because my reactions don’t always stay inside. Sometimes they show up in public—in parking lots, grocery store lines, or traffic when I’m already tired and just want to be home.

When I’m out running errands, I’m on a mission. I want to get in and get out. I’ve always been that way. For me, I become easily overwhelmed by my environment.

If I’m out shopping, I get sensory overload. The lights, the sounds, the smells, all can make me uncomfortable. Waiting in lines makes things louder in my mind, and standing still for too long feels utterly unbearable. My patience runs thin and it often disappears faster than I can catch it.

I’m known to start mumbling things under my breath. Complaining, sighing too loudly, letting my frustration leak out in ways I don’t realize until I’m already in the thick of it.

Recently, I was at the market, frustrated after waiting so long in the 10 items or less line. I began expressing my emotions and frustrations out loud, letting my anger show. The guy in front of me asked me if I was okay. I immediately blushed, turned away, and nearly cried, feeling a meltdown coming on. Then he asked if I wanted to go before him. That did it for me. I was so embarrassed by my actions: my complaining, my impatience, my foolishness. Once I got back to my car, I let it all out and scream-cried from embarrassment.

And then someone notices. “Are you okay?” That question makes my stomach drop, my cheeks turn red, and my tears rise to the surface.

Because suddenly I’m aware of myself—my tone, my face, my body. I feel exposed. Like I’ve embarrassed myself without meaning to. The irritation spikes, but underneath it is shame. I get angry, not just at the situation, but at myself for being seen like this.

I’ll watch other people standing so calmly in line just scrolling through their phones, waiting without any visible frustration. But there I am, standing there tapping my foot, thinking why things aren’t moving along faster or why I always have bad luck choosing the wrong line to be in. I take their quiet as proof that I should calm down, be less of a complainer, be less dramatic and stop being someone who makes too much out of nothing.

I don’t choose to act this way. It’s an automatic reaction. My body will respond before my brain has time to catch up. By the time I realize what’s happening it’s already over.

The aftermath of it all hits me with a wave of emotion. I’ll replay everything I said, wishing I had kept it in, feeling guilty for bringing my emotions into public spaces. I tell myself that I made things worse. That I overreacted. That I should have handled it better.

Even when I’m socializing, my mind is loud. I overthink and mentally react to everything and then judge myself for it. On the outside, I seem fine. On the inside, I feel ridiculous.

My thoughts tell me that I’m too much, even when I’m being quiet. They tell me that I can’t trust my own reactions. That my feelings are something to be embarrassed by.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if what I call “overreacting” is really just overload. A nervous system that reaches its limit quickly. A body that reacts before it has the chance to explain itself. I realized that when I overreact, I’m really just feeling things deeply, and intensely.

Maybe the hardest part isn’t the meltdown. Maybe it’s how harsh I am with myself once it’s quiet again.

I don’t know how to change this yet. But I’m trying to stop calling myself dramatic. I’m trying to name what’s really happening — overwhelm, exhaustion, and a need for relief.

Have you ever felt your emotions spill out in public, leaving you embarrassed afterward? How do you cope when your reactions feel bigger than you expected?

“Be gentle with yourself; you’re doing the best you can.”— Unknown

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #self

Solitude is something that I’m all too familiar with, and to be honest, I genuinely enjoy it. It gives me time to rest, reflect, and reset both my mind and body. But there comes a time when isolation becomes unhealthy. There is a fine line between solitude that heals and isolation that harms.

For a very long time, I didn’t know that difference. Anytime I’d retreat from the world, I assumed I was just recharging. But sometimes, the isolation I sought wasn’t restful at all. It essentially was avoidance disguised as peace. I realized I wasn’t healing. I was hiding.

When Solitude Heals

When I’m in healing isolation mode, everything feels peaceful. It’s a form of self-care for me. It gives me the opportunity to refuel my energy and reconnect with inner myself.

For me, that looks like journaling, talking morning walks with my dog, feeling the fresh air on my face, and letting my mind wander freely. Sometimes I’ll throw on my favorite playlist and just let the rhythm take me.

Solitude heals me in ways that most things can’t. I crave alone time, especially after long periods of social interaction. When I go out of town to visit friends, I tend to expel most, if not all. of my energy. So, coming back home and being in my space to relax and just be, is crucial for me.

It’s my time to sort through my thoughts and let my emotions flow naturally. It’s the kind of solitude that doesn’t make me feel lonely. It makes me feel comfortable and grounded. For me, it’s necessary to have that time to heal, even when things are going fast around me.

When Isolation Hurts

But then there’s the other side of things. The kind of isolation that doesn’t soothe but rather suffocates.

I’ve gone through phases where I completely shut down. Days where I didn’t couldn’t get out of bed, return messages, or even get outside for some air. I was lying in a dark room, starring at the ceiling, wishing for a life that didn’t exist. I told myself it was just a break from reality for a while, but deep down I knew I was running away from my pain.

During one particularly rough time, I remember just hiding under the covers, hoping I would fully just disappear into oblivion. I wanted to get out of the funk I was in, but I kept avoiding everything as if it were the plague. My responsibilities, friends, even simple self-care all took a backseat to my depression.

That silence that had once brought me peace, now brought me extreme loneliness, fatigue, and worthlessness. My thoughts grew louder and darker. The days all blurred together as one. This kind of isolation didn’t heal me; it numbed me completely.

It took me a long time to realize that hiding from life wasn’t protecting me. It wasn’t self-preservation like I’d thought. It was actually self-abandonment.

How I Tell the Difference Now

Learning to recognize the difference between healing and harmful isolation has been an ongoing process for me. Here’s what I’ve discovered helps:

Ask your intention: Am I seeking solitude to heal, or am I avoiding something I’m afraid to face?

Check how your body feels: Healing isolation leaves me lighter, calmer, and more centered. Harmful isolation leaves me heavy, restless, or disconnected.

Notice your readiness to return: Healing solitude has a natural endpoint—it gently nudges me back into the world. Harmful isolation traps me in loops, where even the smallest interaction feels like too much.

Conclusion

For me, healing isolation is like a cocoon—a space to rest, reflect, and rebuild until I’m ready to emerge again. Harmful isolation feels more like a cage—one that keeps me stuck, hidden away, and afraid to step back into life.

These days, when I’m alone in quiet spaces, I remind myself that solitude is a choice, not a punishment. It’s meant to replenish me, not erase me. Even when everything feels overwhelming, learning this difference has helped me rest without disappearing from the world entirely.

“There’s a difference between being alone to find peace and being alone to avoid pain.” - Unknown

#MentalHealth #self #Depression #Anxiety

There are times in life when you wake up and realize—you don’t recognize yourself anymore. It doesn’t usually happen all at once. It’s slow. Piece by piece, life chips away at you until the person you used to be feels like a stranger.

Maybe you’ve lost yourself in addiction.
Maybe you’ve lost yourself in trauma.
Maybe you’ve lost yourself in giving everything to everyone else while leaving nothing for you.

Whatever the reason, the feeling is the same: empty. Disconnected. Gone.

I’ve been there. Looking in the mirror and seeing my reflection but not my spark. Smiling when deep down I wanted to scream. Saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t even close. Showing up for everyone else while I’d already stopped showing up for myself.

And the scariest part? No one notices. You can lose yourself completely and still function, still laugh at the right moments, still carry other people’s weight—while your own identity quietly slips away.

But here’s the truth I had to learn: losing yourself completely doesn’t mean you’re gone forever. It means you have a chance—painful as it is—to rediscover who you are. Sometimes the version of us that disappears isn’t the truest version anyway. Maybe the breaking is what clears the space to rebuild.

How Do You Start Finding Yourself Again?

It’s not easy. And it doesn’t happen overnight. But piece by piece, you can begin to rise again:

Write it out. Journaling gives your pain a voice. Even if it feels messy or meaningless, putting it on paper keeps it from staying bottled up.

Choose small sparks of joy. Do one little thing you used to love, even if you don’t feel it yet. A walk, a song, a favorite food. Over time, sparks become flames.

Set boundaries. Stop apologizing for needing space. Protecting your energy is not selfish—it’s survival.

Talk honestly. Pretending you’re fine only deepens the disconnect. Opening up to someone you trust can remind you that you’re still here.

Be patient with yourself. Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days you’ll feel found, other days lost again. That’s okay. Keep going.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’ve lost yourself completely, I want you to know: you’re not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. And even if you can’t see it right now, there’s still a way back.

I believe we can rise above our pain, our addiction, our trauma, our patterns. Piece by piece, we can reclaim ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll come back not as who we once were, but as who we were always meant to be.

Because sometimes, losing yourself completely is not the end. It’s the beginning of finding yourself more fully than ever before.

✨ Your Turn ✨
Have you ever felt like you lost yourself completely? What helped you start finding your way back—or are you still searching? Share your thoughts in the comments. You never know who might need to hear your story today.

Bigmommaj
#MentalHealth #self -care

Hi Fellow #humans 🤖I've finally managed to pluck up the courage to tell my manager that I'll be taking #time off work this week. In order to be able to have the capacity to deal with the challenges in my life 💓 #self #Care isn't selfish. I'm listening to my #body & #mind #Autism #PTSD #MentalHealth

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