For once, I feel like I am beginning to truly understand my flaws. Not in the sense of condemning myself, but in uncovering the reasons I am who I am. The qualities I’ve long leaned on—the drive, the strength, the independence, the perfectionism—have given me resilience. But they’ve also created walls. I’ve realized that the very things I crave from others—care, attention, consistency, a sense of being held—are often blocked by my own patterns. And those patterns are stitched together with the very traits that once helped me survive.
For so long, I’ve measured myself by what I produce. I told myself I was valuable because of how many hours I worked, how much I showed up for family and friends, how organized or “put-together” I appeared. But when I strip all of that away, I am not defined by productivity, nor by the curated image I project of having it all together.
What these last four weeks have shown me is that meaning isn’t found in proving my worth through effort—it’s found in the moments of connection that soften me. The way I felt seen after a simple picnic with a friend. The grounding I experienced when someone called me in their distress, trusting me to hold space for them. The smile on my mother’s face when I cooked her favorite meal. The tenderness in listening and responding to my partner’s needs. These are not the grand achievements I’ve chased; they are small, ordinary exchanges of presence. And yet, they have been the most healing.
And in a recent conversation, I was reminded of something that has stuck with me: there is nothing more important than being able to give yourself a pep talk. To all the anxiously attached girlies (and fellas), I see you. Our defensiveness makes us observe, redefine, and project things that may never have been there in the first place—and then we wait for the other person to reassure us. Now, others may label that as insecurity, but I don’t agree. Wanting the people around you to see and appreciate you is not insecurity—especially when you’ve communicated that need with honesty. But here’s the hard truth: it is your job, first and foremost, to boost yourself up. To anchor yourself before asking others to steady you. To remind yourself that you are already worthy, already enough, already whole.
I can also see how the way I wanted things to happen—the rigid “shoulds” in my mind—have kept me stuck in a cycle: feeling grounded and whole one day, then anxious and restless the next. When I try to control the how, I close myself off from the simple truth that connection and meaning rarely arrive in the way we expect them to.
Don’t get me wrong—my mornings often still begin with anxiety. When it spirals, the familiar loops of negative thinking still try to convince me they are real. But the difference now is that I can see through them more easily. They are thoughts, not truths. They are not who I am.
And here is the insight I keep coming back to: the life I want is not built on eliminating anxiety, or on perfectly managing every outcome—it is built on choosing, again and again, to participate in the moments that matter. To cook the meal, to take the call, to show up honestly for the people I love. That is where my wholeness lives, not in the illusion of having it all together.
