To The Girl I Used To Be: This Part's Mine

You were lied to.

Not once. Not just by one person. But over and over, in subtle ways, in loud ways, in ways so deeply embedded into your bones you didn’t even recognize them as lies. You were conditioned. Programmed to believe that love meant sacrifice. That strength meant silence. That being good meant being small, convenient, agreeable—even if it broke you.

And you believed them. You swallowed it whole, like a pill you thought would make you better. Because you didn’t know any different. Because they trained you not to.

But I do now.

And I’m not pretending anymore.

You gave too much.

To people who didn’t deserve your breath, let alone your devotion.

You broke yourself to keep their worlds intact.

Held up their comfort, their egos, their dysfunction—like your back was made of steel.

But you were only human. And still, you bent.

Over and over again. Until you couldn’t remember what it felt like to stand up straight.

And the most brutal part?

You kept doing it. Not because you were weak—but because you thought that’s what love was.

Because no one ever showed you how to ask for more without being punished.

Because no one told you that being loved shouldn't feel like being erased.

I wish I could go back and drag you out of those rooms.

Grip your wrist and yank you to safety.

Tell you to stop begging for crumbs from people who would’ve watched you starve.

Tell you to run the first time you made excuses for someone who didn’t deserve you.

Tell you that loyalty to the wrong person is just slow-motion self-destruction.

But I can’t go back.

And even if I could, you wouldn’t have listened.

You were surviving. With the only tools you had.

And survival doesn’t leave much room for discernment.

So, here’s the truth:

You chose survival over dignity more than once.

You stayed too long.

You tolerated what should’ve been a single red flag, not an entire chapter.

You let people stay who should’ve never had your number, let alone your body or your heart.

And that was on you.

But I get it.

You were just trying to live.

Trying to love in a world that made you believe you were only lovable if you hurt quietly.

But I’m not carrying those excuses anymore.

You’re not the main character in this life now.

You’re not in the driver’s seat.

You’re not riding shotgun.

You are in the rearview mirror—where you belong.

Because I’ve got this now.

I won’t be loving out of fear.

I won’t be shrinking to make others comfortable.

I won’t be twisting myself into someone palatable just to stay in rooms that poison me slowly.

You died a thousand quiet deaths trying to be enough.

But I’m the one who crawled out of the wreckage.

I’m the one who stitched myself back together with trembling hands.

I’m the one who built a life out of ash and audacity.

So, thank you—for surviving.

But sit down now.

Shut up.

Rest.

This part’s mine.

– Me