The Exhaustion of a Lie That Was Never Mine

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that sleep cannot touch.

It’s not from overwork or late nights.

It’s the fatigue of carrying something that was never truly mine—

a story, a gaze, a set of rules about what it means to be enough.

For most of my life, I have bent myself around that story.

I have performed, contorted, adjusted, trimmed, puffed up, pulled back—

trying to fit into the ever-shifting silhouette of someone else’s “ideal.”

At times it whispered that I was too much.

At others, that I was not enough.

It wore a thousand faces,

but the root was always the same:

Who I am is not okay as is.

And even now, after years of healing, awakening, and reclaiming,

the ache returns in new clothing.

A different form, a new context—

but still asking the same ancient question:

Do I belong? Am I enough?

I caught it this time.

Not because I’m above it,

but because I’m finally tender enough to see it clearly.

To feel the familiar contraction in my body

and say,

“Oh. You again. I know what you are.”

This time, I didn’t spiral into fixing or proving.

I just sat with it.

Wept with it.

Witnessed the truth beneath the lie.

And what I saw is this:

• I am not here to be preferred.

• I am not here to be shaped by another’s longing.

• I am here to be a force of truth.

• And truth doesn’t bend to preference.

• It creates new preferences.

• It transforms people simply by being witnessed.

  
  

This realization hit me like thunder.

And then came the grief.

Because once you see the lie for what it is, you also see how long you’ve been dancing with it.

How many decisions were made through its lens.

How many moments of joy were muted

by the voice asking if you were doing it right, looking right, being right.

The lie was never mine.

But it lived in me.

In the tilt of my head.

In the way I scanned for cues.

In the moments I held my breath waiting to be chosen.

And now?

I am tired.

Not defeated.

Not broken.

Just ready to set it down.

Not Healing in Lines, but Spirals

I used to think healing was a door you walked through and never returned to.

But now I know: it’s a spiral.

We return to the same places again and again—

not because we are stuck,

but because we are stronger.

Because we are ready to meet the wound at a deeper layer.

Freedom isn’t in never hearing the voice again.

Freedom is in no longer obeying it.

I may not be able to silence it forever.

But I no longer follow it.

I no longer believe it.

I look into the mirror now and soften my eyes,

not to scan for flaws,

but to witness the truth of a woman who stayed.

A woman who is still here.

Still choosing herself.

Still becoming.

A New Vow

So here is what I vow:

I lay down the lie.

I return it to the wind, to the soil, to the silence.

I will not pass it forward.

I will not let it steal another breath.

I choose to meet myself as I am—

not as an offering to be accepted,

but as a truth to be revered.

I belong to myself now.

Entirely.

And if the voice comes back tomorrow,

it will find me standing barefoot in my sovereignty.

Not waiting to be chosen.

But already whole.