Learning to Let Myself Be Known
Yesterday's therapy session revolved around why it is so hard for me to truly connect with people, and why it often isn't until they're gone that I can fully feel the weight of how much they mattered to me.
We talked about how much of myself I hold back because, deep down, I don't believe people really want me or care about me. So I protect myself by staying hidden.
The painful part is that being seen and known is exactly what I crave.
Not just to be seen, but to truly know someone else, too.
The conversation brought me back to the death of my grandmother. I don't think I realized just how fond she was of me until after she passed away, when I heard other people talk about how much she loved me and how highly she thought of me.
That also brought up grief for a therapist I worked with years ago, Maria.
She was the person sitting with me through my grandmother's death. She was there when I bought my grandmother's house and moved into it. She sat with me as I struggled to feel any joy over becoming a homeowner because every room reminded me that the person I wanted to share it with wasn't there anymore.
Owning the house felt like a step forward in my life, but it came at the cost of losing someone I loved. I couldn't hold both realities at the same time. I just wanted my grandmother back.
I think I've processed those feelings around the house itself.
What I haven't fully processed is the grief of realizing I missed out on having the deeply intimate relationship with my grandmother that I wish I had allowed myself to have.
I'm beginning to recognize that this isn't just something that happened with her.
It's something I've done throughout my life.
I'm trying to change that.
When my mom asked how the first night with my roommates went, my instinct was to give my usual answer: "Everything was great."
Instead, I told her the truth.
I let myself be vulnerable.
I gave her a chance to actually meet me, to know what my experience had been instead of giving her the edited version.
And she met me there.
That doesn't erase the childhood I had or the things we went through together.
But it does shape the relationship we're capable of building moving forward.
Realizing that so much of what has kept me from meaningful relationships has been my own inability to let myself be known is both humbling and devastating.
It also makes it hard to trust my own mind.
Maybe I shouldn't fully trust it right now.
Maybe part of this work is learning to push back against my thoughts instead of automatically believing them.
Because my thoughts were shaped by a lifetime of hurt.
I wish healing was as simple as pressing a reset button.
It isn't.
That realization carried into another moment this week.
I had a very vulnerable conversation with a friend about some thoughts and feelings I'd been carrying.
Through that conversation, I realized just how often I project my own beliefs about myself onto other people.
The way I unconsciously see myself becomes the way I assume other people see me.
The conversation was healthy.
It was relieving.
And it was absolutely terrifying.
Even when I choose to take someone at their word, there are still so many screaming contradictions inside my own head that I have to constantly fight against.
It takes an incredible amount of mental energy to stay grounded in what is actually true instead of what my thoughts insist must be true.
And it's exhausting.
I know this is growth.
Learning to discern between my thoughts and reality is growth.
But I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified by realizing just how distorted some of my thinking has become.
I don't mean that in a self-deprecating way.
I mean it honestly.
There are parts of my mind that are hardwired in ways that make life incredibly difficult.
It's hard work.
But for the first time, I think I'm beginning to understand that the life I want—the relationships I want—may not come from finding people who love me more.
It may come from finally allowing the people who already care about me the chance to actually know me.
