Becoming.

Slowly, she exhales.

In the last several weeks, she has experienced loss, heartbreak, death, rejection, fear, and rebirth. Not all from the same source. From many. Too many.

Rejection has brought her sadness, yet gratitude.

Reflection has brought her shame, yet strength.

Rebirth has been painful, yet enlightening.

She laughed at her friend the other day, who told her, "You're a warrior!" ... but only because she was sick of always fighting wars. Was she that difficult to love?

---

Rejection

Every man in her life has rejected her—starting the moment she took her first breath.

Not just her body, but the inconvenient parts: her heart, her tenderness, her laughter, her intention, her whole unedited self. She was always calibrated wrong—too much when she reached, not enough when she waited. Never the right temperature. Never the right volume.

And somehow, in the end, it is always her fault. So she accepts the verdict. She always has.

Even the man whom she believed this life was meant to be shared no longer wants her. No longer chooses her. And that question—faithful and cruel—returns again: Is she really that unbearable? Is there some hidden flaw she’s refused to name? Or has she simply been staring at herself through lenses ground by other people’s hands?

Reflection

Her father never loved her. Let’s stop romanticizing it. He didn’t accept her. Didn’t want to know her. And that absence didn’t stay contained—it became a blueprint.

Because when love arrives wrapped in warmth, she inspects it for traps. She questions it. Tests it. Waits for the fine print. Love, to her, has always come with conditions—and a countdown.

That is how she lost him. Not her father—he was gone the moment she arrived—but him. The one she loved.

Stir his insecurities into her fear, add silence, add doubt, let it simmer. She folded inward. She burned out. Somewhere between protecting herself and proving herself, she lost the ability to trust what was being offered.

She didn’t fail to earn his love. She failed to believe it could exist without cost.

And in that wreckage, she lost more than him. She lost herself.

Rebirth

So what does one do when left holding the splintered remains of their own spirit?

Statistically speaking, the outlook is bleak. Her demons are happy to provide the data—and a few suggestions. But she knows better. She’s tired, not finished.

Her ending will not be written by the hands that bruised her heart. She will not disappear because of emotional wreckage. That story is predictable. Lazy, even.

Instead, she learns. She studies herself. She names the patterns. She builds sturdier truths. Survival becomes an education. Healing becomes a discipline. Will those who rejected her notice the transformation? No.

Will they applaud the resilience, the growth, the quiet reinvention?

Also, no.

And here’s the thing—they don’t have to. She will.

---

Note to self

I’m proud of you. Not in the performative way. Not the kind that requires witnesses. The quiet kind—the kind you earn when no one is clapping.

I’m proud of you for not abandoning yourself when it felt like the rest of the world already had. For staying, even when leaving would’ve been easier. For choosing breath over disappearance.

I’m proud of you for refusing to absorb the hate, the doubt, the rejections handed to you like facts instead of opinions. You learned—slowly, painfully—that just because something is repeated doesn’t make it true.

And no — you do not have to be perfect.

Read that again. Sit with it. You do not have to be perfect.

Perfection was never the goal. It was the cage.

So be you. Be the girl who loves without keeping score. Be the woman who understands that transformation is not a flaw—it’s proof of life. Walk into each day brave enough to make mistakes, wise enough to learn from them, and strong enough not to turn them into punishments.

Be open — to new people, new ideas, new versions of yourself. Let change feel like expansion instead of loss. Let rejection become what it actually is: a clean exit for those who were never meant to stay.

Be honest in your reflections without turning them into indictments. Growth doesn’t require cruelty—especially toward yourself.

And each day, when you rise again—different, softer in some places, stronger in others—accept your rebirth. Honor the past without living there. Welcome to a future that hasn’t introduced itself yet.

Unknown love. New beginnings.And a life that finally makes room for you to thrive.