Tag: writing

Protecting your peace means learning to show up for yourself – not by staying small, but by being scared and doing it anyway.

I still have a lot of the same fears that I did as a child. They sneak up on me.

But – I also started developing the self-assurance of the loudest, assertive kids who I desperately wanted to be.

Protecting your peace is not about staying quiet.

Most of us are afraid of public speaking. I stand at the front of a classroom, yap nonstop, and teach 8th graders without faltering each day – but, I am dreadfully nervous at places like the DMV or when it comes to making a phone call. Part of protecting your peace is acknowledging the things you are afraid of.

I’m frightened of publishing my writing. Part of that anxiety is the fact that I know people won’t care about my personal essays. I love writing so I am not really scared of it. Instead, I am afraid of contrast – of knowing that some parts of me are unlike others.

I’m afraid of having hobbies – I’m also concerned that I am not interesting enough. Again, my concern is merely what people think. I’m concerned that I am either too much or not enough. I’m afraid of feeling dull.

But these simple fears aren’t going to bring me any peace.

The best way to “protect your peace” isn’t to stay silent or afraid. It is to bashfully conquer those fears at your own sheepish pace while continuing to strive for validation – but, this time on the inside.

Sometimes I am frightened to walk down the street… because I feel like I don’t look good enough. To walk. As I dread, I don’t have time to awe at the other pedestrians.

I never learned to ride a bike for the same reason. Then one day, I got embarrassed. And sometime after – about ten years later – I finally did it. It doesn’t matter.

When I tell others that I like to read, I doubt myself. No one expects me to read Shakespeare for pleasure, but getting lost in a Booktok murder mystery doesn’t feel charming anymore.

Protecting my peace means letting myself become engrossed in the book, anyway. Because I like it.

Protecting your peace means reading what you love, walking how you please, and living to impress no one but yourself.

There is a quiet kind of power in not having to explain yourself.

Not everything that happens in your life demands a social media post to justify it. You aren’t indebted to anyone. Sometimes, the most magnetic thing you can do is to leave room for some silence. Hold yourself back, and let them wonder.

Let them wonder why you controlled the urge to text back immediately.

Let them wonder why your selfies hit different now.

Let them wonder why your laugh feels lighter, like you stopped carrying some heavy burden.

Let them wonder why you’re glowing.

Reclaim the driver’s seat in your own journey.

My mom explains everything. She will describe why she bought a certain brand of paper towels like she is trying to sway an apprehensive jury. She will apologize for trying new recipes, even if everyone adores it. I love her more than words can convey, but watching her justify every small choice like someone is going to question her hurts me. I’ve inherited this trait, too.

It makes me realize how women are taught that being misunderstood is dangerous. That silence equals guilt. That mystery is selfish.

We are trained to narrate everything. To perform. To clear up anything that makes us seem complicated. But some things are just for you. Some chapters are meant to be lived, not illustrated through a live-stream.

Mystery isn’t coyness. It’s about clarity. It’s about what deserves to be shared, and what doesn’t. It is knowing that your evolution is sacred, and doesn’t require an audience.

In college, I was bullied out of a sorority that I loved by someone I thought was a friend. Not in that obvious way with locker shoves and “you can’t sit with us.” It started quietly with eye rolls when I spoke, with group meetings that I wasn’t part of, and jokes about my eating disorder. When I made the decision to leave, I started narrating myself constantly. Not in a “woe is me” sense, but I thought if I explained myself enough, I could change the way they saw me. But I couldn’t.

It took me a while to realize: over-explaining is like reopening a wound. You can’t keep hurting yourself hoping someone finally sees how deep the wound goes.

Sometimes you outgrow the need to prove you’re okay. You just are. And that implicit, but wholehearted confidence? It invites people to lean in. Dig deeper. Re-read your captions. Explore signs of what has changed.

Let them.

Because while they are working at trying to decode your silence, you are busy becoming someone you didn’t expect. 

Let them wonder.

You’re not meant to be understood by everyone.

There are days I treat myself like a second thought. I push through my exhaustion like it’s proof of my strength. I dismiss my needs with a light joke. I scroll until my eyes sting, then doubt myself through my FOMO. I fear my own body, prefer anxiety over joy, dread responding to texts, and call it “self-control” or “being chill” when really I am trying to escape myself.

Somewhere along the way, I learned how to show up for other people. To check in, remember birthdays, send “let me know if you need anything” texts and mean it. I genuinely care – just not always for myself.

But here’s what I’m learning (slowly and awkwardly):

It’s not enough to just be someone.

You have to be someone you care about.

Not in a trivial, “treat yourself” kind of way (although that can be valuable too). But in a real, reliable, honest way. The way you would care for a friend who is quietly unraveling. The way you would talk to someone you actually like.

Ask yourself how you’re really doing, and actually wait for the answer.

Ask, but don’t interrogate.

You don’t have to be your best self all the time. But you should be your softest witness. And your most cherished place to land.

So today, I am practicing.

Caring for me like I would someone I love.

And trying to become someone I don’t regularly abandon.

I used to think “being myself” meant being the most likeable version of me.

The girl who recognized the right references. Who said the right things at the right time. Who could adapt her vibe depending on who was in the room. She wasn’t fake necessarily, just tailored and practiced. Curated. Processed, like an Instagram post that only needed one little fix.

But somewhere along the way, the performance became exhausting.

Trying to be chill when I am spiraling. Acting unfazed when I care way too much. Grinning and acting fine when I am actually crumbling inside. And I began to wonder: If I am not even allowing me to be me…who is all this for?

It is easy to say “be yourself.” It is tough to actually do it. Because what if people don’t like the real you? What if the real you is too much? Or not enough? Or too eccentric, or nutty, or loud, or boring, or soft in places you were told to be hard?

But here is the thing I am gently learning: being someone else does not protect you from rejection. It just assures you’ll feel alone even when you’re accepted.

The right people will never ask you to shrink. They won’t flinch when you get real. They won’t back away from your softness. They will take you in. They’ll reflect it back.

Being yourself isn’t about being impeccable. It is about showing up, blemished and all. It is about reclaiming whole parts of you that you used to hide because someone once made you feel like they were bizarre.

And maybe it’s not even about becoming anyone new.

Maybe it is about fully remembering who you were before society told you who to be.

Because everyone else is already taken. And honestly? You are already incredible as you are.