You thought by now it would feel different. You were told if you worked hard, got the degree, landed the job, kept the peace, stayed in the relationship — you’d feel fulfilled. You’d feel “on track.” You’d feel… something.

Let’s name it:
You weren’t born hating your body. You were taught to. You were taught that your worth was in your weight. That being smaller meant being more lovable. That your body should be flat, firm, filtered, and feminine in all the right ways — but never too much.

And now?

If you’ve ever sat there wondering:

“Am I asking for too much?”
“Maybe I’m just hard to love…”
“Why do I always feel like I’m too intense, too emotional, too deep?”

Let me say this clearly:

You are not too much. You are not hard to love. You are just done settling for crumbs.

You keep saying you’re burned out.

And yes — you’re tired.
You’re overwhelmed.
You’re done carrying everything and still feeling like it’s never enough.

But if you’re being honest?
It’s more than burnout.

You’ve always been the strong one.

The dependable one.
The calm-in-the-crisis one.
The one who holds it all together even when you’re falling apart inside.

People rely on you.
They come to you.
They say, “I don’t know how you do it all.”

You’ve worked so hard to be liked. To be easy. Accommodating. Low-maintenance. To be the one everyone calls when they need something — and the last one they check on.

You’ve kept it together. You’ve smiled. You’ve said yes when your whole body was screaming no. You’ve made yourself likable, agreeable, digestible — and here you are… Liked by everyone — but disconnected from yourself.

No one talks about how lonely it is to be the first.

The first to go to therapy.
The first to set a boundary.
The first to say, “That behavior wasn’t okay — even if it was normalized.”

There’s a version of you you’ve been taught to shrink. The one that feels too emotional, too opinionated, too intense, too driven, too independent, too deep, too “extra.”

Before I really started healing, I didn’t know how to rest.
Not the kind where your body is on the couch but your brain is sprinting. I mean real rest — where you feel safe enough to pause without guilt.

There’s this lie we’ve been sold — that by your mid-20s or early 30s, you’re supposed to have it all figured out.

Career. Love. Friendships. Boundaries. Healing. Direction. Confidence.

There was a stretch of time — maybe a few years, maybe longer — where I was everything to everyone.

At the beginning of this year, I made a promise to myself.

I started drawing this invisible shield around my energy — one that only lets in what’s good, aligned, supportive, and real.

Grief didn’t knock gently. It stormed in, tore through everything I thought I knew, and left me staring at pieces of a life that didn’t fit anymore. I had to show up for my family, for my kids, for my clients — while quietly carrying a pain I didn’t have words for.

There was a time when I believed my worth came from how much I got done.

If I checked all the boxes.
If I kept the house perfect.
If I replied to every text right away.
If I said yes to every favor.
If I never dropped a single ball — then maybe I’d be enough.

There was a stretch of my life where I convinced myself I was easy. Low maintenance. No big deal. But the truth? I was just tired of being disappointed.

I was tired of asking for things and getting ignored.
Tired of expressing needs and being told I was difficult or demanding. So eventually, I stopped asking.

Moms are the schedulers. The food shoppers. The birthday gift buyers. The homework helpers. The ones who remember the doctor appointments, the class parties, the permission slips, the soccer games, and the fact that the dog is almost out of flea meds.

Stop calling it normal when it’s just exhausting.

Let’s say this out loud:
You’re not supposed to feel worse after talking to a friend.

You’re not supposed to:
    •    Dread their phone call.
    •    Make that big sigh before you answer.
    •    Feel your body tighten at the sound of their voice.
    •    Get annoyed when their name lights up your phone.
    •    Feel like you’re performing just to keep the peace.
    •    Walk on eggshells so they don’t spiral or snap.

No pretending. No performing. Just peace.

There are some friendships that make you exhale the second you sit down. Nothing is forced. Everything is easy. You don’t have to explain who you are — they just get it.

There’s a version of me my kids will never meet — and thank God for that.

There was a time when I walked into rooms and tried to become whatever version of me would make people most comfortable.

Not because I didn’t know who I was — but because I thought that was the safest way to move through the world.